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LONDON: 
PUBLISHED FOE J. WALKEE, 61, CONDUIT STEEET, 

LATE OF LIYEEPOOL, 

BY 

DAYID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STEEET. 
1851. 






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PAGE 

Publishee's Peeface iii 

VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Prelude 1 

Hymn to the Mght 5 

A Psalm of Life 7 

The Eeaper and the Flowers 8 

The Light of Stars 10 

Footsteps of Angels .11 

Flowers 13 

The Beleaguered City 15 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 17 

BALLADS. 

The Skeleton in Armour 21 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 27 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Village Blacksmith 31 

Endymion 33 

It is not always May .34 

TheEainyDay 35 

God's-Aere 36 

To the Eiver Charles 37 

The Goblet of Life 38 

Blind Bartimeus .41 

Maidenhood 42 

Excelsior 44 

The - Belfry of Bruges ... 46 



VI CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A Gleam of Sunshine 49 

The Arsenal at Springfield 51 

Nuremberg 53 

The Norman Baron 57 

The Day is Done 59 

Seaweed 61 

L'Envoi 63 

EABLIEE POEMS. 

An April Day 64 

Autumn 65 

"Woods in Winter 67 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem 68 

Sunrise on the Hills 70 

The Spirit of Poetry 71 

Burial of the Minnisink 73 

POEMS ON SLAVEEY. 

To William E. Channing 77 

The Slave's Dream 78 

The Good Part that shall not be taken away . . . . . .80 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 81 

The Slave singing at Midnight . 82 

The Witnesses 83 

The Quadroon Girl 85 

The Warning 87 

THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Act 1 91 

Act II 113 

Act III 142 

EYANGELINE ; A TALE OF LOYE IN ACADIE. 

Part the First 175 

Part the Second 213 

TEANSLATIONS. 

SWEDISH. 

The Children of the Lord's Supper '.257 

DANISH. 

King Christian 278 

The Elected Knight 279 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

TRANSLATIONS, 

AXGLO-SAXON". 

The Grave 282 

GKEEJlAiN". 

The Happiest Land 284 

The Wave 285 

The Dead 286 

The Bird and the Ship 287 

Whither? 289 

Beware! 290 

Song of the Bell 291 

The Castle by the Sea 292 

The Black Knight 294 

Song of the Silent Land , 296 

The Luck of Edenhah 297 

The Two Locks of Hair • 299 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door 301 

The Legend of the Crossbill 301 

The Hemlock Tree 302 

Annie of Tharaw 303 

The Sea hath its Pearls 305 

Poetic Aphorisms : 

Money 305 

The Best Medicines 305 

Sin 306 

Poverty and Blindness 306 

Law of Life 306 

Creeds 306 

The Eestless Heart 306 

Christian Love 306 

Art and Tact 307 

Retribution 307 

Truth 307 

Rhymes . 307 

SPANISH. 

Coplas de Manrique 308 

The Good Shepherd 325 

To-morrow 326 

The Native Land . . 327 

The Image of God 328 

The Brook 329 



V1U CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS. 

PAGE 
FEENCH. 

Spring 330 

The Child Asleep 331 

ITALIAN. 

The Celestial Pilot 333 

The Terrestrial Paradise 334 

Beatrice 336 

ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Rain in Summer 341 

Afternoon in February 344 

Walter von der Yogelweid 34^ 

The Occultation of Orion 347 

The Bridge 350 

To the Driving Cloud 352 

Carillon 354 

To a Child 357 

To an old Danish Song-book 363 

Drinking Song. 365 

The Old Clock on the Stairs . 367 

The Arrow and the Song 370 

The Evening Star 371 

Autumn 372 

Dante 373 

Curfew 374 



CONTENTS. IX 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



PAGE 

Dedication 379 

BY THE SEASIDE. 

The Building of the Ship 381 

The Evening Star 394 

The Secret of the Sea V 395 

Twilight . 397 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 398 

The Lighthouse 399 

The Eire of Drift-wood 402 

BY THE EIEESIDE. 

Kesignation 405 

Builders 407 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-glass 409 

Birds of Passage 411 

The Open Window 412 

King "Witlaf's Drinking-horn 413 

Graspar Beeerra 415 

Pegasus in Pound 416 

Tegner's Death 418 

Sonnet. On Mrs. Kemble's Eeadings from Shakspeare .... 421 

The Singers 422 

Suspiria 423 

Hymn for my Brother's Ordination 423 

TKA2n t SLATI0]N~S. 

The Blind Girl of Castel-CuiHe" 427 

A Christmas Carol 442 



ISotes 445 



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EURIPIDES. 



PKELUDE. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
"Where, the long drooping bonghs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 

Alternate come and go ; 

Or when the denser grove receives 

JSTo sun light from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 
1 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, — 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to He, 
And gaze into the summer sky, 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 



PKELUDE. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride, 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled. 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come, be a child once more ! " 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar ; 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapour soft and blue, 

In long and sloping lines. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

And falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower, 
The dreams of youth came back again ; 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
"It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 
Thou art no more a child ! 

"The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

: ' Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 

Not mountains capped with snow, 
JNor forests sounding like the sea, 
jNor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 
Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

'There is a forest, where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin — 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'Athwart the swinging branches cast, 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then conies the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

We can return no more ! ' 

"Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 




HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love, 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 





A PSALM OF LIFE. 



WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And tilings are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act that each to-morrow 

Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Trust no Future, howeer pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God overhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us then be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labour and to wait. 



cp> 




THE EEAPEE AND THE FLOWEES. 

Theee is a reaper whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 
" Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
,( Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

;( They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 
These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 




THE LIGHT OF STAKS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armour gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 11 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thon beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art 

That readest this brief psalm, 
As one by one thy hopes depart, 

Be resolute and calm. 

O, fear not, in a world like this, 

And thou shalt know, ere long, 
Know how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer, and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF AXGELS. 

When the hours of day are numbered, 
And the voices of the ]STight 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
To a holy, calm delight ; 



12 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlour wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the road- side fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Eolded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep, 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 



FLOWERS. 13 



Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



FLO WEES. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmanent do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
GJ-od hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth — these golden flowers. 



14 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sun-light shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues ; 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self- same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Huth amid the golden corn ; 

JNot alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 



THE BELEAGUKED CITY. 15 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 

"Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in a]l seasons, 

Flowers expand their light 'and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with child-like, credulous affection, 

We behold their tender buds expand ; 
Emblems of our own great resurrection, 

Emblems of the bright and better land. 



THE BELEAGUEKED CITY. 

I have read in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleagured the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 



16 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

JSo other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 
That strange and mystic scroll, 

That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOE THE DYING YEAE. 17 

No other voice nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell.. 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS EOE THE DYING YEAE, 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 

And his eye is pale and bleared ! 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 

Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 
Solemnly and slow; 
"Caw ! caw !" the rooks are calling, 
It is a sound of woe, 

A sound of woe ! 
2 



18 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing : " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray,— pray !" 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 

And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, — a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Eids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray 

Loveth that ever soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

"Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me !" 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 
Cold in his arms it lies ; 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOE THE DYING YEAR. 11) 

No stain from his breath is spread 
Over the glassy skies, 

!No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 

And the forests utter a moan, 
Like the voice of one who crieth 

In the wilderness alone, 

" Yex not his ghost !" 

Then comes with an awful roar, 

Gathering and sounding on, 
The storm- wind from Labrador, 

The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 

Sweep the red leaves away ! 
Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 

O Soul, could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down cast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson! 
Christe, eleyson ! 



3&a Hails. 



THE SKELETON IN AEMOUR. 




[The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at 
Newport. A year or two previous, a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, 
clad in broken and corroded armour ; and the idea occurred to me of con- 
necting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the 
Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early 
ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Memoires de la Societe Royale des Antiquaires 
du Nord, for 1838—1839, says :— 

" There is no mistaking, in this instance, the style in which the more 
ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs 
to the Roman or ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the 
time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West 
and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the 
twelfth century ; that style, which some authors have, from one of its most 
striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in 
England is denominated Saxon, and sometimes Norman architecture. 



THE SKELETON IN AEMOUE. 21 

" On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, 
which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date 
of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor 
any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier, rather than of a later 
period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form 
any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are 
familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, that this building 

WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH 

century. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and 
not to the alterations that it subsequently received ; for there are several such 
alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and 
which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to 
various uses; for example, as the substructure of a vdndmill, and latterly as 
a hay magazine. To the same time may be referred the windows, the fire- 
place, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could 
not have been erected for a windmill, is what an architect will easily discern." 
I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well esta- 
blished for the purpose of a ballad ; though doubtless many an honest citizen 
of Newport who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will 
be ready to exclaim, with Sancho, " God bless me! did I not warn you to 
have a care of what you were doing, for that is nothing but a windmill ; and 
nobody could mistake it, but one who had the like in his head."] 



Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armour drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy neshless palms 
Stretched as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ?' 



Then, from those cavernous eyes. 
Pale flashes seem to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December ; 



22 BALLADS. 



And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

- 

" I was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
JN"o Skald in song has told, 

JN~o Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ! 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 



" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 



THE SKELETON IN AKMOUK. 2o 

But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I new 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

Once, as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendour. 

I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 



24 BALLADS. 

Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hilclebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
A lute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 






THE SKELETON IN AEMOUE. 25 

Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hilclebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed ns : 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 



And as to catch the gale, 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hull did reel 

Through the black water ! 

As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 



26 BALLADS. 

So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward : 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which to this very hour, 

Stands looking seaward. 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
JNVer shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 



Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful ! 



THE WEECK OF THE HESPEEUS. 27 

; ' Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars, 

My soul ascended ; 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal ! to the Northland ! Shoal /" l 
— Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPEEUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter. 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes, as the fairy -flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth, 
And watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 
Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
' I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 



28 BALLADS. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see !" 
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the North- east ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so ; 
Eor I can weather the roughest gale, 
That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ?" 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !" 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ?" 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea !" 



THE WEECK OF THE HESPEETJS. 29 

O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 



30 BALLADS. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts, went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of JNorman's Woe ! 




Zftimiiunuk 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



ITndee a spreading chestnut tree 

The Tillage smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 



32 MISCELLANEOUS. 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 

With measured beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 

When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door : 
They love to see the naming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach. 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rej oicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begun, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



ENDTMION. 33 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thon hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought ! 



ENDYMIOK 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropped her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
]Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze, 
3 



34 MISCELLANEOUS. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 
In silence and alone, 
To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 

O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
Are fraught with fear and pain, 
Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 

No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 
[Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if, with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings : 
And whispers, in its song, 
"Where hast thou stayed so long?' 1 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay Pajaros en los nidos de Antaiio.-- Spanish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 



THE RAINY DAT. 35 

So blue yon winding river flows, 

It seems an outlet from the sky, 
Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 

The freighted clouds at anchor He. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 

The fulness of their first delight ! 
And learn from the soft heavens above 

The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 

For O ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 

To some good angel leave the rest ; 
For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 

There are no birds in last year's nest. 



THE KAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 



36 MISCELLANEOUS. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial ground God's-Acre ! It is just ; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they have garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life ; alas, no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again, 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 37 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 

In the fair gardens of that second "birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our Grod, 

This is the place where human harvests grow ! 



TO THE EIVEE CHAELES. 

Eiver ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent Eiver ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness, 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 



38 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me, 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends with joy my soul remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou silent river ! 

That my spirit leans to thee : 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 






THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 39 

I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 

With solemn voice and slow. 

JNo purple flowers, no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbr owned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours, 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
The wreath of fennel wore. 






40 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
]Nor prize the coloured waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate tight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who He 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, — 
Then sleep we side by side. 






BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth !" 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

3 lr}(Tov iA*7]<r6p fl€ ! 

The thronging mnltitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, aboye the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee !" 
0ap<7€i eyetpai, (poovei ere / 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands ?" 
And he replies, " O give rne Hght ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight !" 
And Jesus answers, "riraye- 
C H iriaTis aov aeGcans ce / 

Ye that have eyes, and cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

'IrjffOV, €As7}<t6v fie! 

©apcrei, €j€ipai } v-iraye! 
H trier is aov cridtoK e <re / 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orb a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Grazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hear'st thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 



MAIDENHOOD. 43 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered, 
Birds and blossoms many -numbered ; — 
Age that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Grates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal. 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart, 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of G-od thou art. 



EXCELSIOE. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner, with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said, 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay !" the maiden said, " and rest 

Thy weary head upon this breast !" 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answered, with a sigh, 

Excelsior ! 






EXCELSIOE. 45 



Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good night ! 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried, in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner, with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There, in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



THE BELFEY OF BEUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and 

brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the 

town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I 

stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of 

widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and 
vapours gray, 

Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the land- 
scape lay. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 47 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys here and 

there, 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghostlike, 

into air. 

]^ot a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild 

and high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant 

than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden 

times. 
With their strange, unearthly changes, rang the melancholy 

chimes. 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in 

the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a 

friar. 

Visions of the day departed, shadowy phantoms filled my 

brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, 2 — Mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer. 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Gruy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of 

old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, 3 knights who bore the 

Fleece of Gold ;* 



48 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and 
ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, 5 hunting with her hawk and hound; 

And her lighted bridal- chamber, where a duke slept with the 

queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed 

between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of 
Gold ;6 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, 7 saw the White Hoods moving 

west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's 

nest. 8 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror 

smote ; 
And again the loud alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 
" I am Holand ! I am Holand ! there is victory in the land !" 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's 

roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves 

once more. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 49 

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was 

aware, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined 

square. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
Like foot-prints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they ; 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 
4 



50 MISCELLANEOUS. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet, 

The clover blossoms in the grass 
Else up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
Of earth and folly born!" 
Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 



THE AESENAL AT SPEIXGEIELD. 51 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 

Like pine-trees dark and high, 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh. 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE AKSENAL AT SPEINGEIELD. 

This is the Arsenal, irom floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamour, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 



•52 MISCELLANEOUS. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease ! 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace !" 



NUKEMBEKG. 



53 



Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 




NUEEMBEEa. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow 

lands 
Eise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, 

stands. 



Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and 

song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round 

them throng : 



54 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and 

bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time -defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth 

rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every 

clime. 9 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron 

band, 
Stands the mighty linden, planted by Queen Cunigunde's 

hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 10 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of 

Art- 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the 

common mart ; 

And above cathedral doorways, saints and bishops carved in 

stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy 

dust, 11 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age 

their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture 

rare, 12 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted 

air. 



NTIKEMBEEG. 55 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent 

heart, 
Lived and laboured Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art ; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, — but departed, — for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more 

fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed 

its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and 

dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Master- singers, chanting rude poetic 

strains . 

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly 

guild, 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the 

swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic 

rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's 

chime ; 

Thanking G-od, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of 

poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 



56 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler poet, laureate of the gentle 

craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, 13 in huge folios sang and 

laughed. 

But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's 

song, 14 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white 

and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and 

care, 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique 

chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's 
regard ; 

But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler- 
bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer, from a region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thoughts his 
careless lay : 

G-athering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the 

soil, 
The nobility of labour, — the long pedigree of toil. 



THE NOKMAN BARON . 

Dans les nioineiits de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et plus pro- 
fonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les 
instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles 
se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a 
Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes a son image.— Thierry : Conquete de 
VAngleterre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the JNomian baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 

From the missal on his knee. 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighbouring kloster, 
Hang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle gates. 

Till at length the lays they chaunted 
Heach the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

"Wassail for the kingly stranger, 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 

Christ is born to set us free \" 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
"Miserere, Domine!" 

In that hour of deep contrition, 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 59 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatiires 
By his hand were freed again. 

And as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features, 

And the monk replied, " Amen !" 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 

Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
Erom an eagle in its flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist ; 



60 MISCELLANEOUS. 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only, 

As the mist resembles rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer. 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labour, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 



SEAWEED. 61 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares, that infest the day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 



SEAWEED. 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm- wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan Skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 



62 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting, 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragments of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavour 

That for ever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting, 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



L'ENVOL 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, "Be of good cheer !" 



Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 



Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where death encamps ! 



fiirlbr $11*1110. 



[These Poems were written, for the most part, during my college life, and <->ll 
of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, 
and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence 
in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names, and run away to 
seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on 
a similar occasion : " I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, 
which 1 have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings 
in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world 
together in a more decorous garb."] 



AN APEIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 



AUTUMN. 65 

The softly warbled song 
Conies from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And, when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 



Sweet April ! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
JNor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AITTUMK 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ; 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 

5 



66 EARLIER POEMS. 

And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 
Lifts up her purple wing ; and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings ; 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 



WOODS IN WINTEB. 67 

He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted np for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



WOODS IN WESTEK. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



68 EARLIEB POEMS. 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 




HYMN OF THE MOEAVIAJST JSTUJSTS OF 
BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF FULASKl'S BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 69 

And the censer burning swung, 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The blood-red banner, that with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious isle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner ! But, when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears, 
Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 



70 EAELIEE POEMS. 

" Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNBISE ON THE HILLS. 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 

Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 

And woods were brightened, and soft gales 

Went forth to kiss the sun- clad vales. 

The clouds were far beneath me ; — bathed in light, 

They gathered midway round the wooded height, 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Like hosts in battle overthrown, 

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine, blasted, bare, and cleft. 

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 

Was darkened by the forest's shade, 

Or glistened in the white cascade ; 

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 



THE SPIEIT OF POETKY. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 
The woods were bending with a silent reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That faint and far the glen sent out, 
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Gk> to the woods and hills ! — No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIEIT OF POETEY. 

Theee is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or kissing the soft air, 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast ushering star of morning comes 



72 EARLIER POEMS. 

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 

In monrning weeds, from ont the western gate, 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 

In the green valley, where the silver brook, 

From its full laver, ponrs the white cascade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 

Slips down throngh moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 

And shonts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods, 

Its presence shall npliffc thy thoughts from earth, 

As to the snnshine and the pnre, bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, — 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, — 

G-roves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 

Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 



BUKIAL OF THE MINNTSINK. 73 

That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms 

We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 

When the sun sets. Within her eye 

The heaven of April, with its changing light, 

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung ; 

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 

Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 

When twilight makes them brown ; and on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 

It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 

To have it round us, — and her silver voice 

Is the rich music of a summer bird, 

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



BUKIAL OF THE MINNISIKK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 



74 EAELIEE POEMS. 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone ; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard, 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by its native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 



BUBIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 70 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



$ntms nn ilattnq. 



THE NOBLE HORSE, 
THAT, IN HIS FIERY YOUTH, FROM HIS WIDE NOSTRILS 
NEIGHED COURAGE TO HIS RIDER, AND BRAKE THROUGH 
GROVES OF OPPOSED PIKES, BEARING HIS LORD 
SAFE TO TRIUMPHANT VICTORY, OLD OR WOUNDED, 
WAS SET AT LIBERTY AND FREED FROM SERVICE. 
THE ATHENIAN MULES, THAT FROM THE QUARRY DREW 
MARBLE, HEWED FOR THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS, 
THE GREAT WORK ENDED, WERE DISMISSED AND FED 
AT THE PUBLIC COST ; NAY, FAITHFUL DOGS HAVE FOUND 
THEIR SEPULCHRES J BUT MAN, TO MAN MORE CRUEL, 
APPOINTS NO END TO THE SUFFERINGS OF HIS SLAVE. 

Masshiger. 



[The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter 
part of October [1842]. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since 
that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have 
decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of 
my admiration for a great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANGING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done !" 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Lather's, in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side, 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, "Write!" 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE'S DEE AM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 

He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, 

And fell into the sand. 



the slave's dream. 79 

And then at furious speed lie rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyama scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep, and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 

JNor the burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE 
TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 

In valleys green and cool ; 
And all her hope and all her pride 

Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 

That robes the hills above, 
Though not of earth, encircles there 

All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls, 

With praise, and mild rebukes ; 
Subduing e'en rude village churls 

By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 

Of One who came to save ; 
To cast the captive's chains aside, 

And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 

When all men shall be free ; 
And musical, as silver bells, 

Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 81 

For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall, 

And laboured in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 

Their outbound sails have sped, 
While she, in meek humility, 

JSTow earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 

That clothe her with such grace ; 
Their blessing is the light of peace 

That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP, 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted JNegro lay ! 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp, 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the wisps and glow-worms shine. 

In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 

Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 
Or a human heart would dare, 
6 



82 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched, in the rank and tangled grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear. 



THE WITNESSES. 83 



Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as readied the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 
Half-buried in the sands, 

Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 
Deeper than plummet lies, 

Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink or rise. 



84 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of slaves ! 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses !" 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 

Murders, that with affright 

Scare schoolboys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses !" 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored, with idle sail ; 

He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening gale. 

Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half-curious, half-amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 



86 POEMS ON SLAYEEY. 

Her eyes were, like a falcon's, gray, 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

ISTo garment she wore, save a kirtle gay, 
And her own long raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile, 

As holy, meek, and faint, 
As lights, in some cathedral aisle, 

The features of a saint 



The soil is barren — the farm is old," 

The thoughtful Planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains ; 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak, 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek. 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WAEJSTNG. 

Bewaee ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path — when, poor and blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 
Shorn of his noble strength, and forced to grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelry — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Sampson in this land, 

Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



€$t Ipttiajf ituhfflt 



A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. 



what's done we partly may compute, 
but know not what's resisted. 

Burns. 



[The subject of the following Play is taken in part from the beautiful tale of 
Cervantes, La Gitanilla. To this source, however, I am indebted for the main 
incident only, the love of a Spanish student for a G-ipsy girl, and the name of the 
heroine, Preciosa. I have not followed the story in any of its details. 

In Spain this subject has been twice handled dramatically ; first by Juan Perez 
de Montalvan, in La Gitanilla, and afterwards by Antonio de Solis y "Rivadeneira, 
in La Gitanilla de Madrid. 

The same subject has also been made use of by Thomas Middleton, an English 
gentleman of the seventeenth century. His play is called The Spanish Gipsy. 
The main plot is the same as in the Spanish pieces ; but there runs through it a 
tragic underplot of the loves of Eodrigo and Donna Clara, which is taken from 
another tale of Cervantes, Lz Fuerza de la Sangre. 

The reader who is acquainted with La Gitanilla of Cervantes, and the plays of 
Montalvan, Sob's, and Middleton, will perceive that my treatment of the subject 
differs entirely from theirs.] 



DEAMATIS PERSONS. 



VlCTOEIAN, 

Students of Alcala. 
Hypoltto, 



The Count of Lara, ) 



. . . . Gentlemen of Madrid. 
Don Carlos, J 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 
A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gipsies. 

Bartolome Roman, .A young Gipsy. 

The Padre Ccra of Gcadarama. 

Pedro Crespo, Alcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil 

Francisco, Lara's Servant. 

Chispa, Victorian's Servant 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, A Gipsy girl. 

Angelica, A poor Girl. 

Martina, The Padre C'ura's Niece. 

Dolores, ' Preciosa's Maid. 

Gipsies, MusicHanSi etc. 




THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



ACT I. 



SCEXE I. — The Count of Lara's chambers. Night. The Count in his dressing- 
gown, smoking, and conversing with Don Carlos. 



Laea. — You were not at the play to-niglit, Don Carlos ; 
How happened it ? 

Don Caelos. — I had engagements elsewhere. 

Pray who was there ? 

Laea. — . Why, all the town and court. 

The house was crowded ; and the busy fans 
Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 



92 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

There was the Countess of Medina Celi ; 
The G-oblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 
Her Lindo Don Diego ; Donna Sol, 
And Donna Serafina, and her cousins. 

Don Caelos. — What was the play ? 

Laea. — It was a dull affair ; 

One of those comedies in which you see, 
As Lope says, 15 the history of the world 
Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in the first act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 
" O, I am dead !" a lover in a closet, 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Donna Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, 
Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! 

Don Caelos. — Of course the Preciosa danced to-night? 

Laea. — And never better. Every footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 

Don Caelos. — Almost beyond the privilege of woman ! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and her face 
As beauteous as a saint's in Paradise. 

Laea. — May not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 

Don Caelos. — Why do you ask ? 

Laea. — Because I have heard it said this angel fell, 
And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces, the old monks 



ACT I. SCENE I. 93 

Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

Don Carlos. — You do her wrong ; indeed you do her wrong ; 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

Laba. — How credulous you are ! Why, look you, friend, 
There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade me 
That a mere dancing girl, who shows herself 
Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money, 
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

Don Caelos. — You forget 

She is a Gipsy girl. 

Laba. — And therefore won 

The easier. 

Don Caelos. — Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I remember 
A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair: 
And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, 
The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, 
And smote him in the face ! 

Laba. — And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

Don Caelos. — It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 



94 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

That woman, in her deepest degradation, 
Holds something sacred, something nndefiled, 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! 

Lara. — Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. 

Don Caelos (rising). — I do not think so. 

Lara. — I am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little longer, 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

Don Carlos. — 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. — Yes ; persuade me. 

Don Carlos. — No one so deaf as he who will not hear ! 

Lara. — No one so blind as he who will not see ! 

Don Carlos. — And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams. 
And greater faith in woman ! [Exit. 

Lara. — Greater faith ! 

I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another, 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

{Enter Francisco with a casket.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

Francisco. — None, my lord, 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

Lara. — Then I will try some other way to win her. 



ACT I, SCENE II. 95 

Pray dost thou know Victorian ? 
Francisco. — Yes, my lord ; 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 
Lara. — What was he doing there ? 
Francisco. — I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 
Lara. — Was there another like it ? 
Francisco. — One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 
Lara, — It is well. 

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 

Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [Exeunt. 

scene II. 

A street in Madrid. Enter Chispa, followed by musicians, ivith a bagpipe, guitars, 
and other instruments. 

Chispa. — Abernuncio Satanas ! 16 and a plague on all lovers 
who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of 
sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his ceme- 
tery, say I ; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my 
master, Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentle- 
man ; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover ; and I must be 
up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must 
the sacristan respond. G-od grant he may soon be married, 
for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry ! marry ! 
marry ! Mother, what does marry mean ? It means to spin, 
to bear children, and to weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth ? 
there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring, 
(To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum ! as 
the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way, and don't 
hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father 



96 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who 
lead the life of crickets ; you enjoy hunger by day and noise 
by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but 
pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the 
Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, 
but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall 
not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the 
universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according 
with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend ? 

First Musician. — Greronimo Gril, at your service. 

Chispa. — Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray 
Greronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

First Musician. — Why so ? 

Chispa. — Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an 
unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, 
I have seen thee at the Tavern, and if thou canst run as fast 
as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. 
What instrument is that ? 

First Musician. — An Arragonese bagpipe. 

Chispa. — Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Buja- 
lance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving 
off? 

First Musician. — No, your honour. 

Chispa. — I am glad of it. What other instrument have we? 

Second and Third Musicians. — We play the bandurria. 

Chispa. — A pleasing instrument. And thou ? 

Fourth Musician. — The fife. 

Chispa. — I like it ; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, 
that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. 
And you others ? 

Other Musicians. — We are the singers, please your 
honour. 



ACT I. SCENE IIL 97 

Chispa. — You are too many. Do yon think we are going 
to sing mass in the cathedral of Cordova P Four men can 
make but little nse of one shoe, and I see not how yon can all 
sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That 
is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by 
the Vicar's skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, 
follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 
Preciosa's chamber. She stands at the open window. 

Peeciosa. — How slowly thorngh the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranqnil moon ! Like thistle-down 
The vaponry clonds float in the peaceful sky ; 
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 
The nightingales breathe ont their sonls in song. 
And hark ! what songs of love, what sonl-like sounds, 
Answer them from below ! 

SEEENADE. 

Stabs of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

7 



98 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Wind of the summer night 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 

Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 
She sleeps ! 

My lady sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps I 



(Enter Yictoeian by the balcony.) 



Victorian. — Poor little dove ! Thou tremblest like a leaf. 

Peeciosa. — I am so frightened ! 'T is for thee I tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

Victorian. — None, my love, but thou. 

Peeciosa. — 'T is very dangerous ; and when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 

Victorian. — Since yesterday I Ve been in Alcala 
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, 
"When that dull distance shall no more divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 

Preciosa. — An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest. 

Victorian. — And we shall sit together unmolested, 

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to another. 



ACT I. SCENE III. 99 

Pbeciosa. — That were a life indeed to make time envious ! 

I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. 

I saw thee at the play. 
Victorian. — Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 

And garmented in beauty, as to-night ! 

What hast thou done to make thee look so fair ? 
Preciosa. — Am I not always fair ? 
Victorian. — Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, 

And wish that they were blind. 
Preciosa. — I heed them not ; 

When thou art present, I see none but thee ! 
Victorian. — There 's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes 

Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 
Preciosa. — And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. 
Victorian. — Thou eomest between me and those books too 
often ! 

I see thy face in everything I see ! 

The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 

The canticles are changed to sarabands, 

And with the learned doctors of the schools 

I see thee dance cachuchas. 
Preciosa. — In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the schools 

To-morrow morning. 
Victorian. — And with whom, I pray ? 

Preciosa. — A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 
Victorian. — What mad jest 

Is this? 
Preciosa. — It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 
Victorian. — Prithee, explain thyself. 



100 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Peeciosa. — Why, simply thus. 

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain 

To put a stop to dances on the stage. 
Yictoeian. — I have heard it whispered. 
Peeciosa. — JN~ow the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose conies, would fain behold 

"With his own eyes these dances ; and the Archbishop 

Has sent for me 

Yictoeian. — That thou may'st dance before them ! 

Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 

The fire of youth into these gray old men ! 

'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 
Peeciosa. — Saving one, 

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 

And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 
Yictoeian. — The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms ; 

With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 

I gave my heart away ! 
Peeciosa. — Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 
Yictoeian. — It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting 

Under the orange trees, beside a fountain. 
Peeciosa. — 'T was Easter Sunday. The full-blossomed trees 

Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 

The priests were singing and the organ sounded, 

And then anon the great cathedral bell. 

It was the elevation of the Host. 

We both of us fell down upon our knees, 

Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 

I never had been happy till that moment. 
Yictoeian. — Thou blessed angel! 
Peeciosa. — And when thou wast gone 



ACT I. SCENE III. 101 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 

To any one that day. But from that day 

Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 
Victorian. — Remember him no more. Let not his shadow 

Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa ! 

I loved thee even then, though I was silent ! 
Preciosa. — I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. 

Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 
Victorian. — That was the first sound in the song of love ! 

Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 

Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 

Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 

And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 

The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 
Preciosa. — That is my faith. Dost thou believe these 

warnings ? 
Victorian. — So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts 

Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 

As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 

And from below comes a scarce audible sound, 

So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 

And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
Preciosa. — I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 

I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 

But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. 

Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 

We cannot walk together hi this world ! 

The distance that divides us is too great ! 

Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars ; 

I must not hold thee back. 
Victorian. — Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt ? What I most prize in woman 

Is her affection, not her intellect ! 



102 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

The intellect is finite ; bnt the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth ; 
"What am I ? Why a pigmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say lovest, — 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the affections is thy world, 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? 

Pkeciosa. — Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven, 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Victorian. — Loving more. 

Preciosa. — I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

Victorian. — Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of a mountain torrent, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman (in the street) . — Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 

Victorian. — Hear'st thou that cry ? 

Preciosa. — It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Victorian. — As the hunter's horn 

' Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Preciosa. — Pray, do not go ! 



ACT I. SCENE III. 103 

Victorian. — I must away to Alcala to-night. 

Think of me when I am away. 
Preciosa. — Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. 
Victorian (giving her a ring). — And to remind thee of my 
love, take this ; 

A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 

A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood. 
Preciosa. — It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 

Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves 

The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 

Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 

It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 
Victorian. — What convent of barefooted Carmelites 

Taught thee so much theology ? 
Preciosa (laying her hand upon his mouth). — Hush ! Hush ! 

G-ood night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 
Victorian. — Grood night! good night ! Thou art my guardian 
angel ! 

I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 

{He descends by the balcony.) 

Preciosa. — Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe ? 

Victorian (from the garden). — Safe as my love for thee ! 
But art thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I. Pray, shut thy window close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 

Preciosa (throwing down her handkerchief) . — Thou silly child! 
Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 



104 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Yictokian. — And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
Wafts to the ont-bonnd mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

Preciosa. — Make not thy voyage long. 

Victorian. — To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night ! 

Preciosa. — Good night ! 

"Watchman (at a distance). — Ave Maria Purissima ! 

SCENE IV. 
An inn on the road to Alcala. Baltasar asleep on a bench. Enter Chispa. 

Chispa. — And here we are, half way to Alcala, between 
cocks and midnight. Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! The 
lights out, and the landlord asleep. Hola ! ancient Baltasar ! 

Baltasar (waking). — Here I am. 

Chispa. — Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a 
town without inhabitants. Bring a. light, and let me have 
supper. 

Baltasar. — Where is your master ? 

Chispa. — Do not trouble yourself about him. We have 
stopped a moment to breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses 
to walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as 
one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you 
know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man 
stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. 
What have we here ? 

Baltasar (setting a light on the table). — Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa (eating) . — Conscience of Portalegre ! Stewed kit- 
ten, you mean ! 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 105 

Baltasar. — And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a 
roasted pear in it. 

Chispa (drinking). — Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! You 
know how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this 
is nothing but Yino Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the 
swine- skin. 

Baltasar.— I swear to you, by Saint Simon and Judas, it 
is all as I say. 

Chispa. — And I swear to you, by Saint Peter and Saint 
Paul, that it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like 
the hildalgo's dinner, very little meat, and a great deal of 
table cloth. 

Baltasar. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chispa. — And more noise than nuts. 

Baltasar. — Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, 
Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Yictorian in, to 
take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chispa. — JN"o, you might as well say, " Do-n't-you-want- 
some ?" to a dead man. 

Baltasar. — Why does he go so often to Madrid ? 

Chispa, — For the same reason that he eats no supper. 
He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar? 

Baltasar. — I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has 
been the torment of my life. 

Chispa. — What ! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack ? 
Why, we shall never be able to put you out. 

Yictorian (without) . — Chispa ! 

Chispa. — G-o to bed, Pero G-rullo, for the cocks are 
crowing. 

Yictorian. — Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 

Chispa. — Ea! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, 
and bring water for the horses. I will pay for the supper to- 
morrow. [Exeunt. 



106 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



SCENE V. 

Victorian's chamber at Alcala. Htpolito asleep in an arm-chair. He awakes 

slowly. 

Hypolito. — I must have been asleep ! ay, sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carrillo, 17 
The only place in which one cannot find him 
Is his own cell. Here 's his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

(Re plays and sings. ) 

Padre Francisco U8 
Padre Francisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 

(Enter Victorian.) 

Victoeian. — Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 
Hypolito. — What do you want of Padre Hypolito? 
Victorian. — Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin, 

I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 

I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 

A maiden wooed and won. 



ACT I. SCENE V. 107 

Hypolito. — The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney corner, 

Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come here, my child ; 

I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 
Victokian. — Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; so full 

That I must speak. 
Hypolito. — Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play ; the curtain 

Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 

The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 
Victokian. — JSTay, like the Sybil's volumes, thou shouldst say ; 

Those that remained, after the six were burned, 

Being held more precious than the nine together. 

But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember 

The Gipsy girl we saw at Cordova 

Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 
Hypolito. — Thou meanest Preciosa. 
Victokian. — Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted me 

Long after we returned to Alcala 

She 's in Madrid. 
Hypolito. — I know it. 

Victokian. — And I 'm in love. 

Hypolito. — And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be 

In Alcala. 
Victokian. — O pardon me, my friend. 

If I so long have kept this secret from thee ; 

But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, 

And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 

They sink again, they were not meant for us. 
Hypolito. — Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in love. 

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 

It serves for food and raiment. Grive a Spaniard 



108 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

His mass, his olla, and his Donna Luisa, — 

Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, 

How speeds thy wooing ? Is the maiden coy ? 

Write her a song, beginning with an Ave ; 

Sing as the monk sang to the Yirgin Mary, 

Ave ! cujiis calcem clare^ 
Nee centenni commendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Victorian. — Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it ! 

I am in earnest ! 
Hypolito. — Seriously enamoured ? 

What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 

Enamoured of a Gripsy ? Tell me frankly, 

How meanest thou ? 
Victorian. — I mean it honestly. 

Hypolito. — Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 
Victorian. — Why not ? 

Hypolito. — She was betrothed to one Bartolomi, 

If I remember rightly, a young Gripsy 

Who danced with her at Cordova. 
Victorian. — They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 
Hypolito. — But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her. 
Victorian. — In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 

She is a precious jewel I have found 

Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 

I '11 stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 

Set on my forehead like the morning star, 

The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 



ACT I. SCENE V. 109 

Hypolito. — If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 

'T Trill be indeed a wonder. 
Victorian. — Out upon thee, 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray, tell me, 

Is there no virtue in the world ? 
Hypolito. — JNot much. 

What, think' st thou, is she doing at this moment ; 

Now, while we speak of her ? 
Victorian.- — She lies asleep, 

And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath 

Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 

Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, 

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, 

Hises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, 

Like a light barge safe moored. 
Hypolito. — Which means, in prose, 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 
Victorian. — O, would I had the old magician's glass, 

To see her as she lies, in child-like sleep ! 
Hypolito. — And wouldst thou venture? 
Victorian. — Ay, indeed I would ! 

Hypolito. — Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 

How much lies hidden in that one word, now ? 
Victorian. — Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life ! 

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 

That could we, by some spell of magic, change 

The world and its inhabitants to stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are in, 

What fearful glances downward might we cast 

Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 

What groups should we behold about the death-bed, 

Putting to shame the group of Mobe ! 

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 



110 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 

What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 

What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows ! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 

What lovers with their marble lips together ! 
Hypolito. — Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love, 

That is the very point I most should dread. 

This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left untold. 

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, 

The Lady Yiolante, bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 

Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 

Desertest for this Glauce. 
Victorian. — Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed another, 

Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 

Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 
Hypolito (rising). — And so, goodnight! Good morning, I 
should say. 

{Clock strikes three.) 

Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 
Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! [largely 

And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more 
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 
Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! [Exit. 

Victorian. — Good night ! 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

( Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, and lays a large book 

open upon his knees.) 



ACT I. SCENE V. Ill 

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch 

The changing colour of the waves that break 

Upon the idle seashore of the mind ! 

Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye ? 

O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, 

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows, 

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, 

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, 

And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 

I have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 

Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose words 

Have come to light from the swift river of Time, 

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, 

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 

Prom the barred visor of Antiquity 

[Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 

The shapeless masses — the materials — 

Lie every where about us, What we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 

At evening in his* smoky cot, and draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 

The son of genius comes, footsore with travel, 

And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 



112 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

It gleams a diamond ! Even thus transformed, 
Rude popular traditions and old tales 
Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, 
Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 
Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of the heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises, 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul of man, 
Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many- 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star, 
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 
Yes, she is ever with me. I can feel, 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes, 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ear my name ! 

(Gradually sinks asleep.) 



ACT II. SCENE I. 113 




ACT II. 
SCENE I. — Peeciosa's chamber. Morning. Peeciosa and Angelica. 

Peeciosa. — Why will you go so soon ? Stay yet awhile. 

The poor too often turn away unheard 

From hearts that shut against them with a sound 

That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more 

Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 

What is vour landlord's name ? 
Angelica. — The Count of Lara. 

Peeciosa. — The Count of Lara ? O, beware that man ! 

Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 

And rather die an outcast in the streets 

Than touch his gold. 
Angelica. — You know him, then ! 

Peeciosa. — As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 

As you would keep your name without a blemish, 

Beware of him ! 
Angelica. — Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, 

Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 
Peeciosa. — Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair 



114 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 

What is your name ? 
Angelica. — Angelica. 

Peeciosa. — That name 

Was given you, that you might be an angel 

To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 

Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. 

O, be an angel still ! She needs that smile. 

So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 

No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl, 

Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 

I have no other shield than mine own virtue. 

That is the charm which has protected me ! 

Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 

Here on my heart ! It is my guardian angel. 
Angelica (rising) . — I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. 
Peeciosa. — Thank me by following it. 
Angelica. — Indeed I will. 

Peeciosa. — Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. 
Angelica. — My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. 
Peeciosa. — Some other time, then, when we meet again. 

You must not go away with words alone. 

{Gives her a purse.) 

Take this. Would it were more. 
Angelica— I thank you, lady. 

Peeciosa. — No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. 

I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. 

But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, 

If that can save you from the Count of Lara. 
Angelica,— O, my dear lady ! how shall I be grateful 

Por so much kindness ? 



ACT II. SCENE I. 115 

Peeciosa. — I deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Angelica. — Both heaven and yon. 

Peeciosa — ■ Farewell! 

Remember that yon come again to-morrow. 

Angelica. — I will. And may the blessed Virgin gnard yon, 
And all good angels. [Exit. 

Peeciosa. — May they gnard thee too, 

And all the poor ; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquiria, 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress, 
And my most precions jewels ! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

(Enter Beltba:n t Ceuzado.) 

Ceuzado. — Ave Maria ! 

Peeciosa. — O God ! my evil genins ! 

What seekest thon here to-day ? 
Ceuzado. — Thyself, — my child ! 

Peeciosa. — What is thy will with me ? 
Ceuzado. — Gold ! gold ! 

Peeciosa. — I gave thee yesterday ; I have no more. 
Ceuzado.. — The gold of the Bnsne 20 — give me his gold! 
Peeciosa. — I gave the last in charity to-day. 
Ceuzado. — That is a foolish he. 
Peeciosa. — It is the trnth. 

Ceuzado. — Curses npon thee ! Thon art not my child ! 

Hast thon given gold away, and not to me ? 

Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 
Peeciosa. — To one 

Who needs it more. 
Ceuzado. — No one can need it more. 



116 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Peeciosa. — Thou art not poor. 

Ceuzado. — What, I, who lurk about 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes ; 

I, who am housed worse than the galley slave ; 

I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; 

I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran Cruzado, — 

Not poor ! 
Peeciosa. — Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. 

Thou canst supply thy wants ; what wouldst thou more ? 
Ceuzado. — The gold of the Busne ! give me his gold ! 
Peeciosa. — Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once for all. 

I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 

I gave it to thee freely, at all times ; 

Never denied thee ; never had a wish 

But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 

Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long, 

Thou shalt have more. 
Ceuzado. — And if I have it not, 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 

"Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, 

And live in idleness ; but go with me, 

Dance the Homalis in the public streets, 

And wander wild again o'er field and fell ; 

For here we stay not long. 
Peeciosa. — What ! march again ? 

Ceuzado. — Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town ! 

I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 

Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, 

The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 

And no walls but the far-off mountain tops. 

Then I am free and strong, — once more myself, 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 21 






ACT II. SCENE I. 117 

Peeciosa. — God speed thee on thy march ! I cannot go. 

Cruzado. — Remember who I am, and who thon art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Eartolome Roman 

Peeciosa (with emotion) . — O, I beseech thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 
I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

Ceuzado. — O child, child, child! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit. 

Peeciosa. — Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do, 
Befall what may ; they cannot take that from me, [Exit. 

SCENE II. 
A room in the Abchbishop's Palace. Tlie Aechbishop and a Cardinal, seated. 

Archbishop. — Knowing how near it touched the public morals, 



118 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten 

By such, excesses, we have sent to Home, 

Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 

In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 

By seasonable stop put here in Spain 

To bull-fights, and lewd dances on the stage. 

All this you know. 
Cardinal. — Know and approve. 

Archbishop. — And farther, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 

The first have been suppressed. 
Cardinal. — I trust for ever. 

It was a cruel sport. 
Archbishop. — A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 

Most Catholic and Christian. 
Cardinal. — Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 

Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, 

Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 

As Partem et Circenses was the cry, 

Among the Homan populace of old, 

So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 

Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 

And therefore have induced your grace to see 

These national dances, ere we interdict them. 

(Enter a servant.) 

Servant. — The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians 
Your grace was pleased to order, wait without. 

Archbishop . — Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

(Enter Pkeciosa, with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances slowly in a 
modest half -timid attitude.) 



ACT II. SCENE He 119 

Caedinal (aside), — O what a fair and ministering angel 

Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 
Peeciosa (kneeling before the Archbishop). — 

I have obeyed the order of your grace. 

If I intrude upon your better hours, 

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 

Your holy benediction. 
Aechbishop. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 
Caedinal (aside). — Her acts are modest, and her words 
discreet ! 

I did not look for this ! Come hither, child. 

Is thy name Preciosa ? 
Peeciosa. — Thus I am called. 

Caedinal. — That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father? 
Peeciosa. — Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales. 
Aechbishop. — I have a dim remembrance of that man ; 

He was a bold and reckless character, 

A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 
Caedinal. — Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 
Peeciosa. — Yes ; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can remember still 

The river, and the mountains capped with snow ; 

The villages, where, yet a little child, 

I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; 

The smuggler's horse, the brigand, and the shepherd ; 

The march across the moor ; the halt at noon ; 

The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted 

The forest where we slept ; and farther back, 

As in a dream, or in some former life, 

Gardens and palace walls. 
Aechbishop. — 'T is the Alhambra, 



120 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see thee dance. 
Peeciosa. — Your grace shall be obeyed. 

She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and the dance 
begins. The Archbishop and. the Cardinal look on with gravity and an 
occasional frown ; then m:tke signs to each other ; and as the dance continues, 
become more and more pleased and excited ; and at length rise from their seats, 
throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.) 

SCENE III. 

The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. Cn the right 
the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening. Don Carlos and 
Hypolito meeting. 

Don Carlos. — Hola ! good evening, Don Hypolito. 
Hypolito. — And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. 

Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 

I was in search of you. 
Don Carlos. — Command me always. 

Hypolito. — Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, 

The miser, who upon the day of Judgment, 

Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 22 
Don Carlos. — I do. 

Eut what of that ? 
Hypolito. — I am that wretched man. 

Don Carlos. — You mean to tell me yours have risen empty ? 
Hypolito. — And Amen! said the Cid Campeador. 23 
Don Carlos. — Pray, how much need you ? 
Hypolito. — Some half dozen ounces. 

Which, with due interest 

Don Carlos (giving his purse). — What, am I a Jew, 

To put my moneys out at usury ? 

Here is my purse. 
Hypolito. — Thank you. A pretty purse, 



ACT II. SCENE III. 121 

Made by the hand of some fair M adrilene ; 

Perhaps a keepsake. 
Don Carlos. — JNo, 't is at your service. 

Htpolito. — Thank you again. Lie there, good Saint Chry- 
sostom, 

And with thy golden month remind me often 

I am the debtor of my friend. 
Don Caelos. — But tell me, 

Come you to-day from Alcala ? 
Htpolito. — This moment. 

Don Caelos. — And pray, how fares the brave Yietorian ? 
Htpolito. — Indifferent well ; that is to say, not well. 

A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 

Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 

A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 

He is in love. 
Don Caelos. — And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 
Htpolito. — In this case very ill. 

Don Caelos. — Why so ? 
Htpolito. — For many reasons. First and foremost, 

Because he is in love with an ideal ; 

A creature of his own imagination ; 

A child of air ; a ad echo of his heart ; 

And, like a lily on a river floating, 

She floats upon the river of his thoughts l u 
Don Caelos. — A common thing with poets. But who is 

This floating lily ? For, in fine, some woman, 

Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought, 

Who is it ? Tell me. 
Htpolito. — Well, it is a woman ! 

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 



122 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favourite saint 

With gems and gold, until at length she- gleams 

One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, 

And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll ? 
Don Caelos. — Well, well ! who is this doll ? 
Hypolito. — Why, who do you think ? 

Don Caelos. — His cousin Yiolante. 
Hypolito. — Guess again. 

To ease his labouring heart, in the last storm 

He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. 
Don Caelos. — I cannot guess ; so tell me who it is. 
Hypolito. — Not I. 
Don Caelos. — Why not ? 
Hypolito (mysteriously ). — Why ? Because Mari Franca 25 

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! 
Don Caelos. — Jesting aside, who is it ? 
Hypolito. — Preciosa. 

Don Caelos. — Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me 

She is not virtuous. 
Hypolito. — Did I say she was ? 

The Homan Emperor Claudius had a wife 

Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 

Valeria Messalina was her name. 

But hist ! I see him yonder through the trees, 

Walking as in a dream. 
Don Caelos. — He comes this way. 

Hypolito. — It has been truly said by some wise man, 

That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. 

(Enter Victobia]* in front.) 

Victoeian. — Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground! 



ACT II. SCENE III. 123 

These groves are sacred ! I behold tliee walking 

Under these shadowy trees where we have walked 

At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, 

And is for ever hallowed. 
Hypolito. — Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air, 

Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander 

Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 
Don Carlos.— What ho ! Victorian ! 

Hypolito. — Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Victobian. — Hola ! amigos ! Faith, I did not see you. 

How fares Don Carlos ? 
Don Caelos. — At your service ever. 

Yictoeian. — How is that young and green-eyed G-aditana 

That you both wot of? 
Don Caelos. — Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 26 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 
Hypolito. — Ay de mi ! 

Yictoeian. — You are much to blame for letting her go back. 

A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 

In evening skies. 
Hypolito, — But, speaking of green eyes, 

Are thine green ? 
Yictoeian. — Not a whit. Why so ? 
Hypolito. — I think 

The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 

For thou art jealous. 
Yictoeian. — No, I am not jealous. 

Hypolito. — Thou shouldst be. 
Yictoeian. — Why ? 

Hypolito. — Because thou art in love, 



124 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And they who are in love are always jealous. 

Therefore thou shonldst be. 
Victorian. — Marry, is that all? 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. 

Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 
Hypolito.— Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 

I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 

Lays siege to the same citadel. 
Victorian. — Indeed ; 

Then he will have his labour for his pains. 
Hypolito. — He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me 

He boasts of his success. 
Victorian. — How 's this, Don Carlos ? 

Don Carlos. — Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 

He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue. 

As a gay man might speak. 
Victorian. — Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 

And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, no ! 

This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 

Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 

We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! [Exit. 

Hypolito. — Now what a coil is here ! The avenging Child 27 

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 

And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode 

To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 

Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed youth ! 

But come ; we will not follow. Let us join 

The crowd that pours into the Praclo. There 

We shall find merrier company ; I see 

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 

And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [Exeunt- 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 125 



SCENE IT. 



Pkeciosa's chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand near a table, on 
which are Jlowers. A bird singing in its cage. The CorifT of Laba enters 
behind unperceived. 

Peeciosa (reads), — 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 28 
Thou, thou only, sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so restless ! 

{The bird sings.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
* Thou, thou only, sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 
The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf ? 
Or who takes note of every flower that dies ? 



126 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Heigho ! I wish Yictorian would come. 
Dolores ! 

(Turns to lay down Tier book, and perceives the Count.) 

Ha! 
Lara. — Sefiora, pardon me ! 
Peeciosa. — How's this ? Dolores ! 
Lara. — Pardon me 



Peeciosa. — Dolores ! 

Lara. — Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting, 
If I have been too bold 

Preciosa (turning her bach upon him). — You are too bold 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. — My dear lady, 

First hear me ; I beseech you, let me speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 

Preciosa (turning toioard him with indignation). — Begone ! 
begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honour, 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl to do her wrong ? 

shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, a nobleman, 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 

As to send jewels here to win my love, 

And think to buy my honour with your gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to me ! 
Begone ! I say ! 

Lara. — Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

Preciosa. — Because you dare not. 

Lara. — I dare anything ! 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 127 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived in me. 

In this false world, we do not always know 

Who are our friends and who our enemies. 

We all have enemies, and all need friends. 

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 

Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 
Peeciosa. — If to this 

I owe the honour of the present visit, 

You might have spared the coming. Having spoken, 

Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. 
Laea. — I thought it but a friendly part to tell you 

What strange reports are current here in town. 

lor my own self, I do not credit them ; 

But there are many who, not knowing you, 

Will lend a readier ear. 
Peeciosa. — There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the duty 

Of telling me these tales. 
Laea. — Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 
Peeciosa. — Alas ! 

I have no protectors. I am a poor girl, 

Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 

They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 

I give no cause for these reports. I live 

Retired ; am visited by none. 
Laea. — By none ? 

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 
Peeciosa. — How mean you ? 

Laea. — Nay, nay ; I will not wound your gentle soul 

By the report of idle tales. 
Peeciosa. — Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales ? You need not spare me. 



128 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Laea. — I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks towards the street, 

And this into the Prado, does it not ? 

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, 

You see the roof there just above the trees, 

There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, 

That on a certain night, — be not offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent ! 

I would not blame you, being young and fair 

{He tries to embrace her. She starts bach and draws a dagger from her bosom.) 

Peeciosa. — Beware ! beware ! I am a Gipsy girl ! 

Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Laea. — Pray you, put up that dagger. 

Fear not. 

Peeciosa. — I do not fear, I have a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

Laea. — Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend. I am your friend, 

And by a single word can put a stop 

To all those idle tales, and make your name 

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, 

Pair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 

I love you even to madness, and that love 

Has driven me to break the rules of custom, 

And force myself unasked into your presence. 

(Victoeiak enters behind.) 

Peeciosa. — Pise, Count of Lara ; This is not the place 
Por such as you are. It becomes you not 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 129 

To kneel before me, I am strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and humbled ; 
For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

Laea. — O sweet angel ! 

Peeciosa.— Ay, in truth, 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 

Laea.— Give me some sign of this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Peeciosa. — Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honour. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. O Sir, such love 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 

9 



130 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, 

And bids you look into your heart, and see 

How you do wrong that better nature in you, 

And grieve your soul with sin. 
Lara.— I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love you. 

I would not take your honour, but restore it, 

And in return I ask but some slight mark 

Of your affection. If indeed you love me, 

As you confess you do, O let me thus 

With this embrace 

Victoeian (rushing fonoard) . — Hold! hold ! This is too much. 

What means this outrage ? 
Lara. — First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 
Victorian.— I too am noble, and you are no more ! 

Out of my sight ! 
Lara. — Are you the master here ? 

Victorian. — Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of 
others 

Gives me the right ! 
Preciosa (to Lara). — Go ! I beseech you, go ! 
Victorian. — I shall have business with you, Count, anon ! 
Lara. — You cannot come too soon ! [Exit. 

Preciosa. — Victorian ! 

we have been betrayed ! 
Victorian. — Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not we ! 

Preciosa. — Dost thou imagine 

Victorian. — I imagine nothing ; 

1 see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 131 

Peeciosa. — O speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 
Victoeian. — 'T was not meant to flatter. 

Peeciosa. — Too well thou knowest the presence of that man 

Is hateful to me ! 
Victoeian. — Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 
Peeciosa. — I did not heed his words. 
Victoeian. — Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 
Peeciosa. — Hadst thou heard all — — 

Victoeian. — I heard enough. 

Peeciosa. — Be not so angry with me. 

Victoeian. — I am not angry ; I am very calm. 

Peeciosa. — If thou wilt let me speak 

Victoeian. — Nay? say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 

I do not like these Gripsy marriages ! 

Where is the ring I gave thee ? 
Peeciosa. — In my casket. 

Victoeian. — There let it rest ! I would not have thee wear it ! 

I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 

Peeciosa. — I call the Heavens to witness 

Victoeian. — Nay, nay, nay ' 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips ! 

They are forsworn ! 
Peeciosa. — Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Victoeian. — I gave up all for thee ; myself, my fame, 

My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 

And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go on ! 

Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, 

And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, 



132 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

(He casts her from him and rushes out.) 

Peeciosa. — And this from thee ! 

(Scene closes.) 

SCENE V. 
The Count of Laka's rooms. Enter the Count. 

Laea. — There 's nothing in this world so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
I 've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 
A silly girl, to play the prude with me. 
The fire that I have kindled 

(Enter Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 

What tidings from Don Juan ? 
Feancisco. — Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 
Laea. — And the Duke of Lermos ? 

Feancisco. — Was not at home. 
Laea. — How with the rest ? 

Feancisco. — I Ve found 

The men you wanted. They will all be there, 

And at the given signal will raise a whirlwind 

Of such discordant noises, that the dance 

Must cease for lack of music. 
Laea. — Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 



ACT II. SCENE VI. 183 

What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 

Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak and sword. 

[Exeunt 

SCEISTE VI. 
A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victorian and Hypolito. 

Yictoeian. — O shame ! O shame ! "Why do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me. 
And voices and familiar sights and sounds 
Cry, " Hide thyself!" O, what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

Hypolito. — Did I not caution thee ! Did I not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 

Victoeian. — And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, 
. We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 

Hypolito. — And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 

Victokian. — She does not love him ! 'T is for gold ! for gold ! 

Hypolito. — Ay, but remember, in the public streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gipsy gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

Victokian. — She had that ring from me. God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 

Hypolito. — Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I 've seen him play with swords ; it is his pastime. 



134 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And therefore be not over-confident. 

He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. 

(Enter Laea, followed by Francisco.) 

Lara. — Good evening, gentlemen. 

Hypolito. — Good evening, Count. 

Lara. — I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. 

Victorian. — Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared? 

Lara. — I am. 

Hypolito. — It grieves me much to see this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your swords ? 

Victorian. — ISTo! none! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count. 

(They fight. Victorian disarms the Count.) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its account ? 

Lara. — Strike ! strike ! 

Victorian. — You are disarmed. I will not kill you. 

I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 

(Francisco hands the Count his sword, and Hypolito interposes.) 

Hypolito. — Enough ! let it end here ! The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. JN"ow be friends. 
Put up your swords ; for, to speak frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 



ACT II. SCENE VI. 135 

Lara. — I am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 

Spoken in the heat of blood have led to this. 
Victorian. — Nay, something more than that. 
Lara. — I understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your path. 

To me the door stood open as to others. 

But, had I known this girl belonged to you, 

Never would I have sought to win her from you. 

The truth stands now revealed ; she has been false 

To both of us. 
Victorian. — Ay, false as hell itself! 

Lara.— In truth I did not seek her ; she sought me : 

And told me how to win her, telling me 

The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 
Victorian. — Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out 

These awful doubts, that goad me into madness ! 

Let me know all ! all ! all ! 
Lara.— You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the messenger 

Between us. Question him. Was it not so, 

Francisco ? 
Francisco. — Ay, my lord. 
Lara. — If farther proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. 
Victorian. — Pray let me see that ring ! It is the same ! 

( Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it. ) 

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust ! O Count of Lara, 
"We both have been abused, been much abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. 



136 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. 
I now can see the folly I have done, 
Though 't is, alas ! too late. So fare you well ! 
To-night I leave this hateful town for ever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell ! 
Htpolito.— Farewell, Sir Count. 

[Exeunt Victoeian and Hypolito. 

Lara. — Farewell ! farewell ! 

Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe ! 
I have none else to fear ; the fight is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

[Exit with Fbancisco. 



SCENE VII. 
A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter Ceitzado and Baetolome. 

Cruzado. — And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But 
where wast thou for the most part ? 

Bartolome.— In the G-uadarrama mountains, near San 
Ildefonso. 

Cruzado — And thou bringest nothing back with thee? 
Didst thou rob no one ? 

Bartolome. — There was no one to rob, save a party of 
students from Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us ; 
and a jolly little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a 
missal and a loaf of bread. 

Cruzado. — Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid ? 

Bartolome. — First tell me what keeps thee here? 

Cruzado.— Preciosa. 

Bartolome. — And she brings me back. Hast thou for- 
gotten thy promise ? 



ACT II. SCENE IX. 137 

Ceuzado. — The two years are not passed yet. Wait pa- 
tiently. The girl shall be thine. 

Baetolome.— I hear she has a Busne lover. 

Ceuzado. — That is nothing. 

Baetolome. — I do not like it. I hate him, — the son of 
a Busne harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her 
alone, and I must stand aside, and wait his pleasure. 

Ceuzado. — Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy re- 
venge. When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Baetolome. — Meanwhile, show me her house. 

Ceuzado.— Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. 
She dances at the play to-night. 

Baetolome. — No matter. Show me the house. [Exeunt. 



SCENE VIII. 

TJie Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sounds of castanets behind the 
scenes* The curtain rises, and discovers Preciosa in the attitude of com- 
mencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult ; hisses ; cries of " Brava ?" and 
" Afuera !" She falters and pauses. 7 he music stops. General confusion . 
Preciosa faints. 



SCENE IX. 
The Count op Lara's chambers. Lara and his friends at supper. 

Laea. — So, Caballeros, once more many thanks ! 

You have stood me bravely in this matter. 

Pray fill your glasses. 
Don Juan. — Did you mark, Don Luis, 

How pale she looked, when first the noise began, 

And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 



138 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 

Tumultuous as the sea ! 
Don Luis. — I pitied her. 

Laka. — Her pride is humbled ; and this very night 

I mean to visit her. 
Don Juan. — Will you serenade her? 

Laka. — No music ! no more music ! 
Don Luis. — Why not music ? 

It softens many hearts. 
Laka. — Not in the humour 

She now is in. Music would madden her. 
Don Juan. — Try golden cymbals. 
Don Luis. — Yes, try Don Dinero ; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 
Lara. — To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. 

But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 

A bumper, and away ; for the night wears. 

A health to Preciosa ! 

( They rise and drink.) 

All. — Preciosa ! 

Laka (holdiny ujp Ms empty glass ) . — 

Thou bright and naming minister of love ! 
Thou wonderful magician ! who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and 'mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! O never more henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
G-o ! keep my secret ! 

(Dashes the goblet down. ) 

Don Juan. — Ite I missa est ! 

[Scene closes.) 



ACT II. SCENE X. 139 

SCENE X 
Street and garden wall. Night, Enter Ckuzado and Baetolome. 

Ceuzado. — This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, 
is the honse. The window in which thou seest the light is her 
window. But we will not go in now. 

Baetolome. — Why not? 

Ceuzado. — Because she is not at home. 

Baetolome. — JNo matter ; we can wait. But how is this P 
The gate is bolted. (Sound of guitars and voices in a neigh- 
bouring street.) Hark! There comes her lover with his 
cursed serenade ! Hark ! 

son a. 

Good night ! Good night, beloved J29 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — £0 be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 

Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 
Good night ! Good night, beloved, 

While I count the weary hours. 

Ceuzado. — They are not coming this way. 
Baetolome. — Wait, they begin again. 

SONG {coming nearer) . 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

Baetolome. — Woe be to him, if he comes this way ! 



140 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Ceuzado. — Be quiet, they are passing down the street. 

SONG (dying away). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Baetolome. — Follow that ! follow that ! Come with me. 
Puss ! puss ! 

(Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the Count of Lara and gentlemen, with 

Francisco.) 

Laea, — The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, 

And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale 
Yon balcony. How now ? Her light still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 

(Exeunt, Re-enter Cruzado and Bartolome.) 

Baetolome. — They went in at the gate. Hark ! I hear 
them in the garden. (Tries the gate. J Bolted again ! Vive 
Cristo ! Follow me over the wall. 

( They climb the wall.) 

SCENE XL 

Preciosa's bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an 
undress. Dolores watching her. 

Dolokes. — She sleeps at last ! 

( Opens the window and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 



ACT II. SCENE XI, 111 

Peeciosa (in her sleep). — I must go hence! 

Give me my cloak. 
Dolokes. — He comes ! I liear his footsteps ! 
Peeciosa. — Go tell him that I cannot dance to-night ; 

I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 

That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence. 

I am too weak to dance. 

( Signal from the garden.) 

Doloees (from the window). — Who 's there ? 
Voice (from below). — A friend. 

Doloees. — I will undo the door. Wait till I come. 
Peeciosa. — I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! 

Shame to treat a feeble woman thus ! 

Pe you but kind, I will do all things for you. 

I 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 

Where is Yictorian ? Oh, those hateful lamps ! 

They glare upon me like an evil eye. 

I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 

They hiss at me like serpents ! Save ! save me ! 

( She wakes. ) 

How late is it, Dolores ? 
Doloees. — It is midnight. 

Peeciosa. — We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. 

(She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices,) 

Voice. — Muera ! 

Anothee Voice.— O villains ! villains ! 

Laea. — So! have at you! 

Voice.— Take that ! 

Laea. — O, I am wounded ! 

Doloees (shutting the window). — Jesu Maria! 




ACT III. 

SCENE I. — A cross-road through a wood. In the back-ground a distant village 
spire. Victorian and Hypolito, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting 
under the trees. Hypolito plays and sings. 

SONG. 



Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 



ACT III. SCENE I. 143 

Victoeian. — Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers, and scenes Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 

Hypolito. — Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 

SONG (continued) . 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats, 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Victoeian. — A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. 

Hypolito. — It suits thy case. 

Victoeian. — Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it ? 

Hypolito. — Lopez Maldonado. 

Victoeian. — In truth, a pretty song. 

Hypolito. — With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Victoeian. — I will forget her I All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name, 
And she will say, " He was indeed my friend I" 



144 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 
The shattered blast of the brass-throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

Hypolito. — Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. 

Victorian. — Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 
That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 
There rises from below a hand that grasps it, 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hypolito. — And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health, 
To talk of dying. 

Yictokian. — Yet I fain would die ! 

To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not, 
And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 



ACT III. SCENE II. 145 

Hypolito. — We shall all be soon. 

Victokian. — It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, [strangers ; 
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as 
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hypolito.— Why seek to know ? 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Victokian. — I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hypolito. — Yet thou shalt not perish. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star. 

(Sound of a village bell in the distance.) 

Victorian. — Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 

Binging the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 
Over the red roofs of the cottages, 
And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd 

10 



146 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 

And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 

And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Yirgin ! 

Hypolito. — Amen ! amen! Not half a league from hence 
The village lies. 

Victorian. — This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail 

Across the running sea now green, now blue, 

And, like an idle mariner on the main, 

Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A 
crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a 
group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peal, A Gipsy dance. Enter 
Pancho, followed by Pedro Ckespo. 

Pancho. — Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves ! 

Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 
Pedeo Ceespo. — Keep silence all! I have an edict here 

From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 

Which I shall publish in the market-place. 

Open your ears, and listen ! 

{Enter the Padee Cuba at the door of his cottage.) 

Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict read. 
Padee Cura. — Good day, and God be with you ! Pray, what 

is it ? 
Pedeo Ceespo . — An act of banishment against the Gipsies ! 

{Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) 



ACT III. SCENE II. 147 

Pancho. — Silence ! 

Pedeo Ceespo (reads). — " I hereby order and command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, 
Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off ; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." 
Vile miscreants, and creatures unbaptised ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 

Pancho. — And if in seventy days you are not gone, 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

{The Gipsies go out in confusion, shovjing signs of fear and discontent. Pancho 

follows.) 

Padee Cuea. — A righteous law ! A very righteous law ! 

Pray you, sit down. 
Pedeo Ceespo. — I thank you heartily. 

( They seat themselves on a bench at the Padee Cuba's door, Sound of guitars 
heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say, 
"Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things, — 
How came these Gipsies into Spain ? 
Padee Cuea. — Why, look you : 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir xilcalde. 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Eray Jayme Bleda says 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 



148 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gipsies. 
They never marry, never go to mass, 
Never baptise their children, nor keep Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 



Pedeo Ceespo. — Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety -five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, 
They should be burnt. 

(Enter Victoeian and Htpolito playing. ) 

Padee Ctjea. — And pray, whom have we here ? 

Pedeo Ceespo. — More vagrants ! By St. Lazarus, more 

vagrants ! 
Hypolito. — Good evening, gentlemen ! Is this Guadarrama ? 
Padee Cuea. — Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. 
Hypolito. — We seek the Padre Cura of the village ; 

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 

You must be he. 
Padee Cuea. — I am. Pray, what 's your pleasure ? 

Hypolito. — We are poor students, travelling in vacation. 

You know this mark ? 

( Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band. ) 

Padee Cuea (joyfully). — Ay, know it, and have worn it. 
Pedeo Ceespo (aside). — 

Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 

And there 's no law against them. Sir, your servant. 

[Exit. 

Padee Cuea. — Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hypolito. — Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man !" 
There is a certain something in your looks, 



ACT III. SCENE II. 149 

A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 

You understand,— which, cannot be mistaken ; 

Which marks you as a very learned man, 

In fine, as one of us. 
Victorian (aside). — What impudence ! 
Hypolito. — As we approached, I said to my companion, 

" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my words !" 

Meaning your Grace. " The other man," said I, 

" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 

Must be the sacristan." 
Padre Cura. — Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde ! 
Hypolito. — Indeed ! you much astonish me ! His air 

Was not so full of dignity and grace 

As an alcalde's should be. 
Padre Cura. — That is true. 

He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies, 

Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood. 

There is nothing so undignified as anger. 
Hypolito. — The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, 

If, from his well-known hospitality, 

We crave a lodging for the night. 
Padre Cura. — I pray you ! 

You do me honour ! I am but too happy 

To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 

It is not often that I have occasion 

To speak with scholars ; and Emollit mores, 

Nee sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 
Hypolito. — 'Tis Ovid, is it not? 
Padre Cura. — ]N"o, Cicero. 

Hypolito.— Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar, 

JSTow what a dunce I was to think it Ovid ! 

But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 



150 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Padee Cuba.— Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A room in the Padee Cuea's house. Enter the Padee and Hypolito. 

Padee Cuba. — So then, Seilor, you come from Alcala. 

I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 
Hypolito. — And left behind an honoured name, no doubt. 

How may I call your Grace ? 
Padee Cuea. — G-erdnimo 

De Santillana, at your Honour's service. 
Hypolito. — Descended from the Marquis Santillana? 

From the distinguished poet ? 
Padee Cuea. — From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 
Hypolito. — Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 

Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! — once more ! 

Your name is ever green in Alcala, 

And our professor, when we are unruly, 

Will shake his hoary head, and say, " Alas ! 

It was not so in Santillana's time !" 
Padee Cuea. — I did not think my name remembered there. 
Hypolito. — More than remembered ; it is idolised. 
Padee Cuea. — Of what professor speak you ? 
Hypolito. — Timoneda. 

Padee Cuea. — I do n't remember any Timoneda. 
Hypolito. — A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow 

O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech 

As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten ? 



ACT III. SCENE III. 151 

Padee Cuba. — Indeed, I hare. O those were pleasant days, 

Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 

I had not buried then so many hopes ! 

I had not buried then so many friends ! 

I Ve turned my back on what was then before me ; 

And the bright faces of my young companions 

Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. 

Do you remember Cueva ? 
Hypolito. — Cueva? Cueva? 

Padee Cuba. — Fool that I am ! He was before your time. 

You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 
Hypolito. — I should not like to try my strength with you. 
Padee Cuba. — Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. 

Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 

(Enter Martina.) 

Hypolito. — You may be proud of such a niece as that. 

I wish I had a niece. JEmollit mores. (Aside.) 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 

Your servant, fair Martina. 
Mabtina. — Servant, sir. 

Padee Cuba. — This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it, 

Let us have supper. 
Martina. — 'T will be ready soon. 

Padee Cuba. — And bring a bottle of my Yal-de-Penas 

Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 

Pray you, Sefior, excuse me. [Exit. 

Hypolito. — Hist ! Martina ! 

One word with you. Bless me, what handsome eyes ! 

To-day there have been Gipsies in the village. 

Is it not so ? 
Mabtina.— There have been Gipsies here. 
Hypolito.— Yes, and they told your fortune. 



152 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Martina (emharrassed) . — Told my fortune? 

Hypolito. — Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, — they said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, 
And him you should not marry. Was it not ? 

Martina (surprised) . — How know you that ? 

Hypolito. — O, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand. And then they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall, 
And rich, should come one day to marry you, 
And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 

( Tries to hiss her. She runs off. Enter Victoria^, with a letter.) 

Yictorian. — The muleteer has come. 

Hypolito. — So soon ? 

Victorian. — I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. 

Hypolito. — What news from court ? 

Yictorian. — He brought this letter only. (Reads.) 

O cursed perfidy ! YHiy did I let 
That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

Hypolito. — What news is this that makes thy cheek turn pale. 
And thy hand tremble ? 

Yictorian. — O, most infamous I 

The Count of Lara is a damned villain ! 

Hypolito. — That is no news, forsooth. 

Yictorian. — He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 



ACT III. SCENE III. 153 

The love of Preciosa, JS"ot succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, 
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a beggar, 
She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, 
Housing with Gipsies ! 

Hypolito. — To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil's Diana. 
Hedit et Virgo ! 

Victorian.— - Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart ! 
I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I 've done her ! 

Hypolito. — O beware ! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Victorian. — Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness. I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

{Enter the Padre Cuba.) 

Hypolito.— Tell us, Padre Cura, 

"Who are these Gipsies in the neighbourhood ? 
Padre Cura.— Beltran Cruzado and his crew. 
Victorian. — Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found again ! 
Hypolito.— And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, 

Called Preciosa ? 
Padre Cura.— Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 



154 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Hypolito. — Yes, moved with hunger; 

He is half famished with his long day's journey. 
Padee Cuba. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper 

waits. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of Guadarrama. 
Enter Chispa, cracking a whip, and singing the Cachucha, 

Chispa. — Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let us have horses, and 
quickly. Alas, poor Chispa ! what a dog's life dost thou lead ! 
I thought, when I left my old master Yictorian, the student, to 
serve my new master, Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, 
should lead the life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and 
get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, what can you 
expect of the friars P But, in running away from the thunder, 
I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after 
my master and his Gripsy girl. And a good beginning of the 
week it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning. 

(Enter Don Cablos.) 

Don Caelos. — Are not the horses ready yet ? 
Chispa. — I should think not, for the hostler seems to be 
asleep. Ho ! within there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! 

(He knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter Mosquito, putting on his jacket.) 

Mosquito. — Pray, have a little patience. I 'm not a musket. 

Chispa.— Health and pistareens ! I 'm glad to see you 
come on dancing, padre ! Pray, what 's the news ? 

Mosquito. — You cannot have fresh horses ; because there 
are none. 



ACT III. SCENE IV. 155 

Chispa. — Cachiporra ! Throw that bone to another dog. 
Do I look like your aunt ? 

Mosquito. — "No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. — Go to ! go to ! 

Mosquito. — Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. — Yes ; and going to Estreniadura. Get us horses. 

Mosquito.— What 's the news at court ? 

Chispa. — Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set 
up a coach, and I have already bought the whip. 

(Strikes Mm round the legs.) 

Mosquito. — Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don Caelos. — Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. 
(Gives money to Mosquito. ) It is almost dark ; and we are in 
haste. But tell me, has a band of Gipsies passed this way of 
late? 

Mosquito. — Yes ; and they are still in the neighbourhood. 

Don Caelos. — And where ? 

Mosquito. — Across the fields yonder, in the woods near 
Guadarrama. [Exit. 

Don Caelos. — ]S"ow this is lucky. We will visit the Gipsy 
camp. 

Chispa. — Are you not afraid of the evil eye ? 3 ° Have you 
a stag's horn with you ? 

Don Caelos. — Fear not. We will pass the night at the 
village. 

Chispa. — And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine 
under one blanket. 

Don Caelos. — I hope we may find the Preciosa among 
them. 

Chispa. — Among the Squires ? 

Don Caelos. — No ; among the Gipsies, blockhead ! 



156 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Chispa. — I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves 
trouble enough on her account. Do n't you think so ? How- 
ever, there is no catching trout without wetting one's trowsers. 
Yonder come the horses. [Exeunt. 

SCENE V. 

The Gipsy camp in the forest. Night. Gipsies working at a forge. Others playing 

cards by the fire-light. 

Gipsies (at the forge sing). — 

On the top of a mountain I stand,3i 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee ? 
O how from their fury shall I flee ? 

First Gipsy (playing). — Down with your John-Dorados, 
my pigeon. Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make 
an end. 

Gipsies (at the forge sing) . — 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran; 
God send the Gipsy lassie here, 

And not the Gipsy man. 

Fikst Gipsy (playing). — There you are in your morocco ! 
Second Gipsy. — One more game. The Alcalde's doves 
against the Padre Cura's new moon. 

Fibst Gipsy. — Have at you, Chirelin. 
Gipsies (at the forge sing). — 

At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gipsy man, 

The Gipsy lassie came. 



ACT III. SCENE V. 157 

(Enter Beltean Ceuzado.) 

Ceuzado. — Come hither, Murcigalleros and Hastilleros ; 
leave work, leave play ; listen to your orders for the night. 
(Speaking to the right.) You will get you to the village, 
mark you, by the stone cross. 

Gipsies. — Ay ! 

Ceuzado (to the left). — And you, by the pole with the 
hermit's head upon it. 

Gipsies. — Ay ! 

Ceuzado. — As soon as you see the planets are out, in with 
you, and be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, 
and Saint Martin asleep. D' ye hear ? 

Gipsies. — Ay ! 

Ceuzado. — Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a 
goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. " Vineyards 
and Dancing John" is the word. Am I comprehended ? 

Gipsies. — Ay ! ay ! 

Ceuzado. — Away, then ! 

(Exeunt severally. CErzADO walks up tlie stage, and disappears among the trees. 

Enter Peeciosa.) 

Peeciosa. — How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckoning shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
BAsing and bending with the flickering flame, 
Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being, 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 

(Baetolome rushes in.) 

Baetolome.— Ho ! Preciosa ! 



158 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Peeciosa.— O, Bartolome ! 

Thou liere ? 
Baetolome. — Lo ! I am here. 

Peeciosa. — Whence comest thou ? 

Baetolome. — Prom the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, 

From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 

And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold 

Come I for thee, my lamb. 
Peeciosa. — O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 

The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 

Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 

Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 

Upon thy head ! 
Baetolome. — Ay, and I 've wandered long 

Among the mountains ; and for many days 

Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. 

The wind and rain have been my sole companions. 

I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, 

And the loud echo sent it back to me, 

Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, 

And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 
Peeciosa. — Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 
Baetolome. — Preciosa! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 

Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 

Ply with me ! 
Peeciosa. — Speak of that no more. I cannot. 

I am thine no longer. 
Baetolome. — O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played together, 

How we grew up together ; how we plighted 

Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 



ACT III. SCENE V. 159 

Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 

I am hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf! 

Fulfil thy promise ! 
Peeciosa. — 'T was my father's promise, 

Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, 

Nor promised thee my hand ! 
Baetolome. — False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 
Peeciosa. — Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee ; 

I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 

It is my destiny. Thou art a man 

Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, 

A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 

Whose heart is broken ? Seek another wife, 

Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 

Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. 

Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 

I never sought thy love ; never did aught 

To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 

And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 

That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 

Beware, beware of that. 
Baetolome. — For thy dear sake, 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 
Peeciosa. — Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. 

Thou must not linger here. 
Baetolome. — Come, come with me. 

Peeciosa. — Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

Baetolome. — I entreat thee, come! 

Preciosa. — Away ! It is in vain. 

Baetolome. — Wilt thou not come ? 

Peeciosa.— Never ! 



160 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Baetolome. — Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee ! 

Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. [Exit, 

Peeciosa. — AH holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of G-od, the glorified, protect me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is 't to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest for ever ! O, dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain ! 

(Enter Victoeian and Htpolito behind.)' 

Victoeian. — 'Tis she ! Behold, how beautiful she stands 

Under the tent-like trees ! 
Htpolito. — A woodland nymph ! 

Victoeian. — I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 
Htpolito. — Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 
Victoeian (disguising his voice), — Hist ! Gipsy ! 
Peeciosa (aside, with emotion). — 

That voice ! that voice from heaven ! 

Who is it calls ? 
Victoeian. — A friend. 

Peeciosa (aside), — 'T is he ! 't is he ! 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, 

And sent me this protector ! Now be strong, 

Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 

False friend or true ? 
Victoeian. — A true friend to the true ; 



ACT III. SCENE Y. 161 

Fear not ; come hither. So ; can yon tell fortunes ? 
Peeciosa. — Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. 

Give me yonr hand. It is not crossed, I see. 
Victoeian (putting a piece of gold into her hand). — 

There is the cross. 
Peeciosa. — Is 't silver ? 

Victoeian. — No, 't is gold. 

Peeciosa. — There 's a fair lady at the court, who loves yon. 

And for yourself alone. 
Victoeian. — Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 

Not this old woman's tale ! 
Peeciosa. — You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humour in your blood 

Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it now ; 

The line of life is crossed by many marks. 

Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged the maid who 
loved you ! 

How could you do it ? 
Victoeian. — I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no more. 
Peeciosa. — How know you that ? 
Victoeian. — A little bird in the air 

"Whispered the secret, 
Peeciosa. — There, take back your gold ! 

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand ! 

There is no blessing in its charity ! 

Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 

And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 
Victoeian (aside). — How like an angel's speaks the tongue 
of woman, 

When pleading in another's cause her own ! 

11 



162 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. 

( Tries to take the ring.) 

Peeciosa. — "No ; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 
Victorian. — Why, 'tis but a ring. 

I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 

Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. 
Peeciosa. — Why would you have this ring ? 
Yictoeian. — A traveller's fancy, 

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it 

As a memento of the Gripsy camp 

In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 

Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 

Pray, let me have the ring. 
Pkectosa. — No, never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I die ; 

But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, 

That it may not fall from them. T' is a token 

Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 
Yictoeian. — How? dead? 

Peeciosa. — Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead. 

He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 

I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, 

To prove to him that I was never false. 
Yictoeian (aside). — Be still, my swelling heart! one 
moment, still ! 

Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 

Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, 

And that you stole it. 
Peeciosa. — O. you will not dare 



ACT III. SCENE V. 163 

To utter such a fiendish he ! 
Victorian. — JNot dare ? 

Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee ! 

(She rushes into his arms.) 

Peeciosa. — 'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ! yes ! my heart's 
elected ! 

My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 

"Where hast thou been so long ? Why didst thou 
leave me ? 
Victorian. — Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 

Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

Preciosa. — Hadst thou not come 

Victorian. — I pray thee do not chide me ! 

Preciosa. — I should have perished here among these Gipsies. 
Victorian. — Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. 

Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, 

Thou being absent ? O, believe it not ! 

Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, 

For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 

Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou forgive me ? 
Preciosa. — I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger 

Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, 

I had forgiven thee. 
Victorian. — I am the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 

It was the Count of Lara 
Preciosa.— That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard 



Victorian. — I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on - f 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy ; 



164 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

For every tone, like some sweet incantation, 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

(They walk aside.) 

Hypolito. — All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
All passionate love-scenes in the best romances, 
All chaste embraces on the public stage, 
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 
Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, 
And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

Pkectosa. — Sefior Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

Hypolito. — Not to night; 

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. 

Chispa (within). — What ho! the Gipsies, ho! Beltran 
Cruzado ! 
Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.) 

Victokian. — What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been robbed ? 
Chispa. — Ay, robbed and murdered ; and good evening to 
you, 

My worthy masters. 
Victorian. — Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

Chispa (to Preciosa). — 

Good news from court ; good news ! Beltran Cruzado, 

The Count of the Cales, is not your father, 



ACT III. SCENE V. 165 

But youx 4-^s father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. *y^x* a-^ n0 more a Gipsy. 

Victoeian. — Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

Chispa. — And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your health, 
As wells drink in November, when it rains. 

Victoeian. — Where is the gentleman ? 

Chispa.— As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Peeciosa. — Is this a dream ? O, if it be a dream, 

Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet ! 

Eepeat thy story ! Say I 'm not deceived ! 

Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 

This is the G-ipsy camp ; this is "Victorian, 

And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! speak ! 

Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 
Victoeian. — It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, 

A blissful certainty, a vision bright 

Of that rare happiness, which even on earth 

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich 

As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 

And I am now the beggar. 
Peeciosa (giving him her hand). — I have still 

A hand to give. 
Chispa (aside). — And I have two to take. 

I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives 
almonds 

To those who have no teeth. That 's nuts to crack. 

I've teeth spare, but where shall I find almonds ¥ 
Victoeian. — What more of this strange story ? 
Chispa. — Nothing more. 



166 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Your friend, Don Carlos, is now ~± **** village 

Showing to Pp^<> Orespo, the Alcalde, 

The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, 

Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 

And probably they '11 hang her for the crime, 

To make the celebration more complete. 
Victokian. — No ; let it be a day of general joy ; 

Fortune comes well to all that comes not late. 

Now let us join Don Carlos. 
Hypolito. — So farewell, 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 

Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 

And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 

To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 

To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 

Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 

The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 

And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. 

SCENE VI. 

A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses the 
stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and 

steel. 

SONG. 

If thou art sleeping,. maiden,3 2 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

( Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks 

above.) 

Monk. — Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! good man \ 



ACT III. SCENE VI. 167 

Shepherd. — Ola ! 

Monk. — Is this the road to Segovia ? 

Shepherd. — It is, your reverence. 

Monk. — How far is it? 

Shepherd. — I do not know. 

Monk. — What is that yonder in the valley ? 

Shepherd. — San Ildefonso. 

Monk. — A long way to breakfast. 

Shepherd. — Ay, marry. 

Monk. — Are there robbers in these mountains r 

Shepherd. — Yes, and worse than that. 

Monk.— "What ? 

Shepherd. — Wolves. 

Monk. — Santa Maria ! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and 

thou shalt be well rewarded. 
Shepherd. — What wilt thou give me ? 
Monk. — An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 

( Tliey disappear. A mounted contrabandista passes , wrapped in his cloak, with a 
gun at Ms saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing.) 

SONG. 

Worn with, speed is my caballo, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, ca"ballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear the rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

( Song dies away. Enter Prectosa, on horseback, attended by Victorian, Hypo- 
lito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on foot, and armed.) 

Victorian. — This is the highest point. Here let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us 



168 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
O glorious sight ! 

Peeciosa. — Most beautiful indeed ! 

Hypolito. — Most wonderful ! 

Victoeian. — And in the vale below, 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 

Sends up a salutation to the morn, 

As if an army smote their brazen shields, 

And shouted victory ! 

Peeciosa. — And which way lies 

Segovia ? 

Victorian. — At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it ? 

Peeciosa. — No. I do not see it. 

Victorian. — The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hypolito. — *T is a notable old town. 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Bey. O, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, 
Glides at its foot. 

Peeciosa. — O, yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart, than with mine eyes, 
So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, 



ACT III. SCENE VI. 169 

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, 
And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea ! 

(She weeps.) 

Victorian. — O gentle spirit ! Thon didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more, 
IN"or thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

Preciosa. — Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him there, 
Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street, 
And saying, " Hark! she comes!" O father, father! 

( They descend the pass. Chispa remains behind. ) 

Chispa. — I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas 
and alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I 
neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the 
time on foot, and the other half walking ; and always as merry 
as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as 
the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, 
and shuffle the cards ! I am not yet so bald, that you can see 
my brains ; and, perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, 
and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! [Exit. 



(A pause. Then enter Bartolome wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his 

hand.) 

Bartolome. — They passed this way ! I hear their horses' hoofs ! 



170 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet caramillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last ! 

(Fires down the pass.) 

Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! — O, my God ! 

( The slot is returned. Baetolome falls. ) 



(0DongBltttB; 



TALE OF LOTE IN AC AD IE. 



INTRODUCTION 



[The story of ' 'Evangeline" is founded ou a painful occurrence which took 
place in the early period of British colonization in the northern part of America. 

In the year 1713, Acadia, or as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was ceded to 
Great Britain by the French. The wishes of the inhabitants seem to have been 
little consulted in the change, and they with great difficulty were induced to take 
the oaths of allegiance to the British government. Some time after this, war 
having again broken out between the French and British in Canada, the Acadians 
were accused of having assisted the French, from whom they were descended, and 
connected by many ties of friendship, with provisions and ammunition, at the 
siege of Beau Sejour. Whether the accusation was founded on fact or not, has 
not been satisfactorily ascertained ; the result, however, was most disastrous to 
the primitive, simple-minded Acadians. The British government ordered them to 
be removed from their native colony, and dispersed throughout the other colonies, 
at a distance from their own much-loved land. This resolution was not com- 
municated to the inhabitants till measures had been matured to carry it into 
immediate effect ; when the Governor of the colony, having issued a summons, 
calling the whole people to a meeting, informed them that their lands, tenements, 
and cattle of all kinds were forfeited to the British crown ; that he had orders to 
remove them in vessels to distant colonies, and they must remain in custody till 
their embarkation. 

The poem is descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in these 
calamitous proceedings. 



EVANGELINE, 



PART THE FIRST. 

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the 

hemlocks, 
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the 

twilight, 
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, 
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms, 
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring 

ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the 

forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that 
beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice 
of the huntsman? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian 
farmers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood- 
lands, 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of 
heaven ? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever 
departed ! 



176 



EVANGELINE. 



Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of 

October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er 

the ocean, 
taught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand 

Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is 

patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's 

devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the 

forest ; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 




I. 



In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pre 



PAET THE FIEST. I. 177 

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the 

eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to nocks without 

number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour 

incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood- 
gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the 

meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and 

cornfields, 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the 

northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty 

Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station 

descended. 
There, in the midst of its farms reposed the Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of 

chesnut, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the 

Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows ; and gables 

projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the door- way 
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the 

sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the 

chimneys, 
Matrons and maidens sit in snow-white caps, and in kirtles 
Scarlet, and blue, and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 

12 



178 4 EVANGELINE. 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within 
doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs 
of the maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the 
children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless 
them. 

Heverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and 
maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the 
sun sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. . Anon from the 
belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 

Hose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and con- 
tentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of G-od and of man. Alike were they free 
from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of re- 
publics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their 
windows ; 

But their* dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the 
owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of 
Minas, 
Benedict Belief ontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre, 



PAET THE FIEST. I. 179 

Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his house- 
hold, 

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the 
village. 

Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy 
winters ; 

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow- 
flakes ; 

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as 
the oak -leaves. 

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by 
the way- side, 

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade 
of her tresses ! 

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the 
meadows. 

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 

Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the 
maiden. 

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from 
its turret 

Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his 
hyssop 

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads 
and her missal, 

Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear- 
rings, 

Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir- 
loom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations, 

But a celestial brightness, a more ethereal beauty — 



180 EVANGELINE. 

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after con- 
fession, 

Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon 
her. 

"When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite 
music. 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 

Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a 
shady 

Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing 
around it. 

Eudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a foot- 
path 

Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 

Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a pent- 
house, 

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, 

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its 
moss-grown 

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the 
horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns 
and the farm-yard. 

There stood the broad- wheeled wains, and the antique ploughs 
and the harrows. 

There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered 
seraglio, 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the 
selfsame 

Yoice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In 
each one 



PAET THE FIEST. I. 181 

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a stair- 
case 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the doyecot stood, with its meek and innocent 
inmates 

Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand 
Pr£ 

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house- 
hold. 

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church, and opened his 
missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her 
garment ! 

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended. 

And as he knocked, and waited to hear the sound of her foot- 
steps, 

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of 
iron ; 

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whis- 
pered 

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 

But among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 

Gabriel Lajeunnesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all 
men ; 

For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the 
people. 



182 EVANGELINE. 

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest 
childhood 

Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them 
their letters 

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and 
the plain-song. 

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson com- 
pleted, 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the black- 
smith 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold 
him 

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a play- 
thing. 

Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the 
cart wheel 

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering dark- 
ness 

Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny 
and crevice, 

Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring 
bellows, 

And as its pantings ceased, and the sparks expired in the 
ashes, 

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the 
chapel. 

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 

Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the 
meadow. 

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the 
rafters, 



PART THE FIRST. II. 



183 



Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea, to restore the sight of its 

fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were 

children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the 

morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into 

action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the 

sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with 

apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and 

abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 




II S 

]N"ow had the season returned, when the nights grow colder 
and longer, 



184 EVANGELINE. 

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice- 
bound 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of 
September, 

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the 
angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their 
honey 

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful 
season, 

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All- 
Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the 
landscape 

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of 
the ocean 

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony 
blended. 

Yoices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm- 
yards, 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the 
great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours 
around him ; 

While arrayed in its robes of russet, and scarlet, and 
yellow* 



PAET THE FIBST. II. 185 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the 

forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles 

and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest, and affection, and 

stillness. 
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight 

descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to 

the homestead. 
Pawing the ground as they came, and resting their necks on 

each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of 

evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved 

from her collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from 

the sea-side. 
Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed 

the watch-dog. 
Patient full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their pro- 
tector, 
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the 

wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the 

marshes, 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour. 



186 EVANGELINE. 

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and 

their fetlocks, 
While aloft on their shonlders the wooden and ponderous 

saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of 

crimson, 
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pail the foaming streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the 

farm-yard, 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; 
Heavily closed, with a creaking sound, the valves of the barn 

doors, 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouth fire-place, idly the 
farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the 

smoke -wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the nickering light, and the pewter plates on the 

dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun- 
shine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vine- 
yards. 



PART THE FIEST. II. 187 

Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated. 

Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, 

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of 
a bagpipe, 

Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments to- 
gether. 

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals 
ceases, 

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the 
altar, 

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock 
clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly 

lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its 

hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the 

blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with 

him. 
"Welcome !" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused 

on the threshold. 
"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the 

settle 
Close by the chimney side, which is always empty without 

thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of 

tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face 

gleams, 



188 EVANGELINE. 

Hound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the 

marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the 

blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 
"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy 

ballad ! 
Ever in cheerfulest mood art thou, when others are filled 

with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them, 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a 

horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought 

him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly 

continued : 
" Four days now are passed since the English ships at their 

anchors 
Bide in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed 

against us. 
"What their design may be is unknown ; but all are com- 
manded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's 

mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the meantime 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier 

purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in 

England 
By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and 

children." 



PART THE FIKST. II. 189 

" Not so think the folk in the village," said, warmly, the 

blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he 

continued : — 
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port 

Hoyal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its out- 
skirts, 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all 

kinds; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of 

the mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer :— - 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our 

cornfields, 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 
Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's 

cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of 

sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the 

contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the 

village 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe 

round about them, 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a 

twelvemonth. 
Bene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and 

inkhorn. 
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our 

children ?" 



190 



EVANGELINE. 



As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her 

lover's, 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had 

spoken, 
And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. 




III. 



Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 



PAET THE FIBST. III. 191 

Over his shoulders ; Ms forehead was high ; and glasses with 
horn bows 

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great 
watch tick. 

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a 
captive, 

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the 
English. 

]N*ow, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 

BApe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and child- 
like. 

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 

For he told them tales of the loup-garou in the forest, 

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the 
horses, 

And of the white letiche, the ghost of a child who un- 
christened 

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of 
children ; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut- 
shell, 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover, and 
horseshoes, 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside, Basil the black- 
smith, 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his 
right hand, 

" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard the talk 
in the village, 



192 



EVANGELINE. 



And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and 

their errand." 
Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary 

public, — 
" G-ossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the 

wiser; 
And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 
Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest 

us?" 
" G-od's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible 

blacksmith ; 
" Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and 

the wherefore ? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest !" 
But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary 

public, — 
"Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often con- 
soled me, 
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort of Port 

Royal." 
This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to re- 
peat it 
Whenever neighbours complained that any injustice was 

done them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left 

hand, 
And hi its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the 

people. 



PAET THE FIBST. III. 193 

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance. 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine 

above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land were 

corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, 

and the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's 

palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on scaffold, 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the 

thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its 

left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the 

balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was in- 
woven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the 

blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no 

language ; 
And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the 

vapours 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window panes in the 

winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 

13 



194 EVANGELINE. 

Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home- 
brewed 

Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village 
of Grand Pre ; 

While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and 
ink-horn, 

Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the 
parties, 

Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and cattle. 

Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were 
completed, 

And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the 
margin. 

Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the 
table 

Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 

And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bride- 
groom, 

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 

Wiping the foam from his Up, he solemnly bowed and 
departed, 

While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 

Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 

Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the 
old men 

Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 

Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in 
the king-row. 

Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's em- 
brasure, 

Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon 
rise 

Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows, 



PART THE FIEST. III. 195 

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 

Thns passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry 

Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straight- 
way 

Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the 
household. 

Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door- 
step 

Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with 
gladness. 

Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the 
hearth- stone, 

And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 

Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 

Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 

Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of 
her chamber. 

Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white and its 
clothes press 

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully 
folded 

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband 
in marriage, 

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a 
housewife. 

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant 
moonlight 

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the 
heart of the maiden 



196 EVANGELINE. 

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the 

ocean. 
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the 

orchard, 
Waited her lover, and watched for the gleam of her lamp and 

her shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of 

sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the 

moonlight 
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 
And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the 

moon pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her 

footsteps, 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with 

Ha gar ! 



PART THE FIRST. IT. 



179 




IV. 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding 

at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous 

labour * 

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the 

morning. 



198 EVANGELINE. 

!Now from the country around, from the farms and the neigh- 
bouring hamlets, 

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young 
folk 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous 
meadows, 

"Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the 
greensward, 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the 
highway. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were 
silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at 
the house-doors 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and 
feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers to- 
gether, 

All things were held in common, and what one had was 
another's. 

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and 
gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the 

notary seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 



PART THE FIEST. IV. 199 

]Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the bee- 
hives, 

Michael the fiddler was placed with the gayest of hearts and 
of waistcoats. 

Shadow and light from the trees alternately played on his 
snow-white 

Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler 

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the 
embers. 

G-ayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 

Toustes Bourgeois de Chartres, andie Carillon de Dunk er que, 

And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

Under the orchard- trees and down the path to the meadows ; 

Oldfolk and young together, and childrenmingled among them. 

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! 

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo, with a summons 

sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows, a 

drum beat. 
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in 

the church-vard, 
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on 

the head- stones 
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the 

forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly 

among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangour 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and 

casement, — 



200 EVANGELINE. 

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the 

soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of 

the altar, 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal com- 
mission. 
" You are convened this day," he said, " by his Majesty's 

orders. 
Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered 

his kindness, 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my 

temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our 

monarch ; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all 

kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this 

province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell 

there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's 

pleasure I" 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hail- 
stones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his 

wmdows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from 

the house-roofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 



PART THE FIRST. IV. 201 

So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the 
speaker. 

Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then 
rose 

Londer and ever londer a wail of sorrow and anger, 

And, by one impnlse moved, they madly rnshed to the door- 
way. 

Yain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads 
of the others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the black- 
smith, 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly 
he shouted, — 

" Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn 
them allegiance ! 

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and 
our harvests !" 

More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a 
soldier 

Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the 
pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the 

altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into 

silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and 

mournful 



202 EVANGELINE. 

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 

" What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness has 
seized yon ? 

Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and 
taught you, 

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and 
privations ? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and for- 
giveness ? 

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you 
profane it 

Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon 
you ! 

See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy com- 
passion ! 

Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' O Father, 
forgive them!' 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father forgive them !' ' 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his 
people 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate 
outbreak ; 

And they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, forgive 
them !" 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from 
the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people 

responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 



PAET THE FLRST. IY. 203 

Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls with 

devotion translated, 
Hose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to 

heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and 

on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house, the women and 

children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right 

hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, 

descending, 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and 

roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its 

windows. 
Lo ! within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the 

table ; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with 

wild flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought 

from the dairy ; 
And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the 

farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial 

meadows. 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial 

ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and 

patience ! 



201 EVANGELINE. 

Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 
Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the 

women, 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they 

departed, 
Urged by their household cares and the weary feet of their 

children. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering 

vapours 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from 

Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline 

lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the 

windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emo- 
tion, 
" Gabriel !" cried she, aloud, with tremulous voice ; but no 

answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of 

the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her 

father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the 

supper untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms 

of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the 

window. 



PART THE FIEST. V. 



205 



Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the neigh- 
bouring thunder 

Told her that G-od was in heaven, and governed the world he 
created ! 

Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of 
heaven ; 

Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered 
till morning. 




Y. 



Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth 



Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm- 
house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 



206 • EVANGELINE. 

Came from tke neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian 
women, 

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea- 
shore, 

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings. 

Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the 
woodland. 

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 

While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of 
playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on 
the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats 

All day long the wains came labouring down from the 

village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 
Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the 

church-yard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the 

church- doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy 

procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers, 
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their 

. country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and 

way-worn, 
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and 

their daughters. 



PART THE FIKST. V. 207 

Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their 

voices, 
Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 
" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! 
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and 

patience !" 
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood 

by the way- side. 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine 

above them 
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half- way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached 

her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and 

whispered, — 
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may 

happen !" 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her 

father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his 

aspect ! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, 

and his footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his 

bosom. 
But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced 

him. 



208 EVANGELINE. 

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed 
not. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mourful pro- 
cession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of em- 
barking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, 

saw their children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her 

father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the 

twilight 
Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent 

ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand- 
beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery 

sea-weed. 
Farther back, in the midst of the household goods and the 

waggons, 
Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea and the sentinels near them, 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers, 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the 

sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their 
pastures ; • 



PAET THE FIEST. V. 209 

Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from 

their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the 

farm-yard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the 

milk-maid. 
Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus 

sounded, 
Eose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the 

windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been 

kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in 

the tempest. 
Sound them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were 

gathered, 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of 

children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his 

parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and 

cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her 

father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or 

emotion, 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been 

taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer 

him, 

14 



210 EVANGELINE. 

Vainly offered liim food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he 

spake not, 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire- 
light. 
" Benedicite /" murmured the priest, intones of compassion, 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his 

accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a 

threshold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of 

sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the 

maiden, 
Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above 

them 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows 

of mortals. 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in 

silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the 
blood-red 

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the 
horizon 

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and 
meadow, 

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows to- 
gether. 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the 
village, 

Grleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the 
roadstead. 

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 



PART THE FIRST. V. 211 

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering 

hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, 

and, uplifting, 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred 

house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on shore and on 
shipboard. 

Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their 
anguish, 

" We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand 
Pre!" 

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm- 
yards, 

Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of 
cattle 

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs inter- 
rupted. 

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping 
encampments 

Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of 
the whirlwind, 

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and 
the horses 

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er 
the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and 
the maiden 



212 EVANGELINE. 

Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened 

before them ; 
And as they tnrned at length to speak to their silent com- 

panioD, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the 

sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his 

bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 
And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude 

near her, 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon 

her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 
Eeddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around 

her, 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our 

exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the church- 
yard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the 

sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand 

Pr4. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 



PART THE SECOND. I. 



213 



Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast con- 
gregation, 

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 

'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying 
landward. 

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 

And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the 
harbour, 

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village 
in ruins. 







PART THE SECOND. 



Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand 

Pre, 
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 



214 EVANGELINE. 

Bearing a nation, with, all its household gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from 
the north-east 

Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of 
Newfoundland. 

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to 
city, 

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry southern 
savannahs, — 

From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the 
Father of Waters 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the 
ocean, 

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the 
mammoth. 

Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart- 
broken, 

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a 
fireside 

Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the church- 
yards. 

Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and 
wandered, 

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 

Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, 

Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its path- 
way 

Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and 
suffered before her, 

Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and aban- 
doned, 



PART THE SECOND. I. 215 

As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by- 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the 

sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un- 
finished ; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever 

within her, 
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the 

spirit, 
She would commence again her endless search and en- 
deavour ; 
Sometimes in church-yards strayed, and gazed on the crosses 

and tomb-stones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its 

bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside 

him. 
Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved 

and known him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunnesse !" said they ; " O, yes ! we have seen 

him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the 

prairies ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and 

trappers." 
" Gabriel Lajeunnesse !" said others ; " O, yes ! we have 

seen him. 



216 EVANGELINE. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 

Then would they say, — "Dear child! why dream and wait 

for him longer ? 
Are there not other youths as fair as G-abriel ? others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be 

happy ! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid Saint Catherine's 

tresses." 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, — "I 

cannot ! 
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not 

elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the 

pathway, 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in dark- 
ness." 
And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 
Said, with a smile, — " O, daughter ! thy God thus speaketh 

within thee ! 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of re- 
freshment ; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the 

fountain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labour ; accomplish thy work of 

affection ! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is 

godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is 

made godlike, 



PAST THE SECOND. I. 217 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy 
of heaven !" 

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and 
waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, 
" Despair not !" 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless dis- 
comfort, 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of exist- 
ence. 

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of 
existence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the 
valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its 
water 

Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that 
conceal it, 

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an 
outlet. 



218 



EVANGELINE. 




II. 



It was the month of May. Ear down the Beautiful Biver. 
Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wabash, 
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boat- 
men. 
It was a band of exiles ; a raft as it were, from the ship- 
wrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common mis- 
fortune ; 
Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by 

hearsay, 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred 
farmers. 



PART THE SECOND. II. 219 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelonsas. 
With them Evangeline went, and her gnide, the Father 

Felician. 
Onward, o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre 

with forests, 
Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 
JSTight after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its 

borders. 
JSTow through rushing chutes, among green islands, where 

plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with 

the current, 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their 

margin. 
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans 

waded. 
Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and dove- 
cots. 
They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual 

summer, 
Where, through the golden coast, and groves of orange and 

citron, 
Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 
They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou 

of Plaquemine, 
Soon were they lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, 
Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the 

cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid air 



220 EVANGELINE. 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathe- 
drals. 
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the 

herons 
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, 
Or by the owl as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the 

water, 
G-leamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the 

arches. 
Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks 

in a ruin. 
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around 

them ; 
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and 

sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be com- 
passed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, 
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has 

attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the 

moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a 

phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before 

her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and 

nearer. 



PAET THE SECOND. II. 221 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the 

oarsmen, 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on 

his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the 

blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. ' 
Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the 

music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 
Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 
And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the 

silence. 
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the 

midnight, 
Silent at times, and then singing familiar Canadian boat- 
songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own Canadian rivers. 
And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of 

the desert, 
Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim 

alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades ; 

and before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the 

lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 



222 EVANGELIXE. 

Paint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia 
blossoms, 

And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands, 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of 
roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 

Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus- 
pended. 

Under the boughs of "Wachita willows, that grew by the 
margin, 

Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the 
greensward, 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slum- 
bered. 

Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the 
grape-vine 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft, like the ladder of Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 

Were the swift humming birds, that flitted from blossom to 
blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered be- 
neath it. 

Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening 
heaven 

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 

Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and 

trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and 

beaver. 



PAET THE SECOND. II. 223 

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and 
careworn, 

Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sad- 
ness 

Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettoes, 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the 
willows, 

And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were 
the sleepers ; 

Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering 
maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the 
prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the 
distance, 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, — " O Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ?" 

Then, with a blush, she added, — " Alas for my credulous 
fancy ! 

L T nto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he 
answered, — 

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me with- 
out meaning. 

Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the 
surface 



224 EVANGELINE. 

Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is 
hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls 
illusions. 

Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward, 

On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. 
Martin. 

There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her 
bridegroom, 

There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheep- 
fold. 

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 

Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 

They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." 

And with these words of cheer they arose and continued 

their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; 
Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at tlrif touch, and melted and mingled 

together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless 

water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around 

her. 
Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest 

of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow-spray that hung o'er the water, 



PAET THE SECOND. II. 225 

Shook from his little throat such floods of delicious music, 

That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed 
silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to 
madness 

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bac- 
chantes. 

Then single notes were heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in 
derision, 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree 
tops 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the 
branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with 
emotion, 

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the 
green Opelousas, 

And through the amber air, above the crest of the wood- 
land, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring 
dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of 
cattle. 



15 



220 



EVANGELINE. 







« ' 



III. 

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from 

whose branches 
G-arlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule- 
tide, 
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A 

garden 
G-irded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, 
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of 

timbers 
Hewn from the cypress tree, and carefully fitted together. 
Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns sup- 
ported, 
Rose-wreathed, vine encircled, a broad and spacious verandah, 
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, 
Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, 



PART THE SECOND. III. 227 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sun- 
shine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in 
shadow, 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate ran a path- 
way 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless 
prairie, 

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the 
tropics, 

Stood a cluster of cotton-trees, with cordage of grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the 
prairie, 

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 

Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deer- 
skin. 

Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish 
sombrero 

Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its 
master. 

Hound about him were numberless herds of kine, that were 
grazing 

Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury fresh- 
ness 

That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the land- 
scape. 

Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 



228 EVANGELINE. 

Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the 

evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the 

cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the 

prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate 

of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to 

meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and 

forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 
When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the black- 
smith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 
There in an arbour of roses with endless question and 

answer 
Grave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly 

embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and 

thoughtful. 
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and 

misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat em- 
barrassed, 
Broke the silence, and said, — " If you came by the Atcha- 

falaya, 
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on 

the bayous P" 



PART THE SECOND. III. 229 

Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous 

accent, — 
" G-one ? is Gabriel gone ?" and concealing her face on his 

shoulder, 
ALL her o'erburdened heart gaye way, and she wept and 

lamented. 
Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he 

said it, — 
" Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 
Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and my 

horses. 
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his 

spirit 
Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 
He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent 

him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the 

Spaniards, 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Moun- 
tains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the 

beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive 

lover ; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are 

against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the 

morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 



230 EVANGELINE. 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the 
river, 

Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the 
fiddler. 

Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 

Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 

" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian min- 
strel !" 

As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straight- 
way 

Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old 
man 

Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, en- 
raptured, 

Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 

Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and 
daughters. 

Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant 
blacksmith, 

All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour ; 

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the 
climate, 

And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who 
would take them ; 

Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do 
likewise. 

Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy ve- 
randah, 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of 
Basil 

Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted to- 
gether. 



PAET THE SECOND. III. 231 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with 

silver, 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within 

doors 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmer- 
ing lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the' 

herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless pro- 
fusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches 

tobacco, 
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they 

listened : — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been 

friendless and homeless, 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than 

the old one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel 

through the water. 
All the year round the orange -groves are in blossom ; and 

grass grows 
M ore in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the 

prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of 

timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses . 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with 

harvests, 



232 EVANGELINE. 

]No King George of England shall drive you away from your 
homesteads, 

Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms 
and your cattle." 

Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his 
nostrils, 

And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the 
table, 

So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded, 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his 
nostrils. 

Eut the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and 
gayer :-— 

" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the 
fever ! 

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nut- 
shell !" 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps 
approaching 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy verandah. 

It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herds- 
man. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours : 

Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were 
as strangers, 

Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each 
other, 

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 

But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding 

From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 



PAET THE SECOND. III. 233 

All tilings forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the mad- 
dening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the 

music, 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering 

garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and 

the herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the 

garden. 
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the 

forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the 

river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam 

of the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious 

spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the 

garden 
Poured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and 

confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and 

night-dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical 

moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 



234 EVANGELINE. 

As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the 
oak-trees, 

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless 
prairie. 

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the 
heavens, 

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and 
worship, 

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that 
temple. 

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin." 

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire- 
flies, 

Wandered alone, and she cried, — " O Gabriel ! O my be- 
loved ! 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 

Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands 
around me ! 

Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour, 

Thou hast laid down to rest, and to dream of me in thy 
slumbers. 

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about 
thee ? 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor-will 
sounded 

Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighbour- 
ing thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into 
silence. 



PART THE SECOND. III. 235 

" Patience !" whispered the oaks, from oracular caverns 01 
darkness ; 

And from the moonlit meadow a sigh responded, "To- 
morrow !" 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers of the 

garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his' 

tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of 

crystal. 
" Farewell !" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy 

threshold ; 
" See that you bring back the Prodigal Son from his fasting 

and famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom 

was coming." 
"Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil 

descended 
Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were 

waiting. 
Thus beginning their journey with morning and sunshine and 

gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding 

before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 
JSTot that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that suc- 
ceeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 
JN"or after many days had they found liim ; but vague and 

uncertain 
Humours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate 

country ; 



236 



EVANGELINE. 



Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 

Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous 
landlord, 

That on the day before, with horses and guides and com- 
panions, 

Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies, 




IV. 

Fae, in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous 
summits. 

Down from their desolate, deep ravines, where the gorge, like 
a gateway, 

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's waggon, 

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owhyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Moun- 
tains, 

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Ne- 
braska ; 



PAET THE SECOND. IV. 237 

And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish 
sierras, 

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the 
desert, 

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the 
ocean, 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful 
prairies, 

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 

Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk, and the 
roebuck ; 

Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with 
travel ; 

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war- 
trails 

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage 
marauders ; 

Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running 
rivers ; 

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the 
desert, 

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook- 
side ; 

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 



238 EVANGELINE. 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Moun- 
tains, 

Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind 
him. 

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and 
Basil 

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o 'ertake 
him. 

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his 
camp-fire 

Eise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at night- 
fall, 

When they had reached the place, they found only embers 
and ashes. 

And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies 
were weary, 

Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 

Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished 
before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently 

entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her 

sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman, returning home to her people 
From the far-off hunting grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been 

murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and 

friendliest welcome 
Gave they with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted 

among them 



PAET THE SECOND. IV. 239 

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his com- 
panions, 
"Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer 

and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the 

quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up 

in their blankets, 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian 

accent, 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and 

reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved andhad been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's com- 
passion, 
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near 

her, 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had 

ended 
Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of 

the Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a 

maiden, 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the 

wigwam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the 

forest. 



240 EVANGELINE. 

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird in- 
cantation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinan, who was wooed by a 

phantom, 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hnsh of 

the twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the 

maiden, 
Till she followed his green and waving plume throngh the 

forest, 
And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline 

listened 
To the soft now of her magical words, till the region around 

her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the 

enchantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour 
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the 

woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but 

a secret, 
Subtle sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the 

swallow. 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 
And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom 

had vanished. 



PAET THE SECOND. IV. 241 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the 

Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along,—" On the westward slope of 

these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Bobe chief of the 

Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and 

Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as 

they hear him." 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline 

answered, — 
"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await 

us!" 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the 

mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of 

voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a 

river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit 

mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the 

village, 
ELnelt the Black Bobe chief with his children. A crucifix. 

fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape- 
vines, 
Looked with its agonised face on the multitude kneeling 

beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate 

arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 

16 



242 EVANGELINE. 

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the 

branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer 

approaching, 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devo- 
tions. 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had 

fallen 
From the hands of the priest, like seeds from the hands of 

the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade 

them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant 

expression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the 

forest, 
And with words of kindness conducted them into his 

wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of 

maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the 

teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity 

answered : — 
" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his 

journey!" 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of 

kindness ; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the 

snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 



PART THE SECOND. IV. 243 

" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but 
in autumn, 

When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." 

Then Evangeline said, — and her voice was meek and sub- 
missive, — 

" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the 
morrow, 

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and 
companions, 

Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the 
Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize that 

were springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now 

waving above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and 

forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by 

squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the 

maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn- 
field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her 

lover. 
"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy 

prayer will be answered ! 
Look at this delicate flower that lifts its head from the 

meadow, 



244 EVANGELINE. 

See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the 

magnet ; 
It is the compass flower, that the finger of God has sus- 
pended 
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of 

fragrance, 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is 

deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews 
of nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet 

Gabriel came not ; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin 

and blue-bird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, — yet Gabriel came 

not. 
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was 

wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it is said, in the Michigan 

forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. 

Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 



PART THE SECOND. IY. 245 

Tlius did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and 

places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 
Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle fields of the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long' 

journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from her 

beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the 

shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er 

her forehead. 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 



246 



EVANGELINE. 




; ^sps^^-*"** 53 -^ "^^^i^s^-^?*^^^^ ^^s^v^^^Sf 



y. 



In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's 

waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he 

founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of 

beauty, 



PAET THE SECOND. V. 247 

And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the 

forest, 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they 

molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed an 

exile, 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the 

city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a 

stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the 

Quakers, 
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and 

sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and 

her footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 
So. fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far 

below her 
Dark no longer but all illumined with love ; and the path- 
way 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the 

distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his 

image, 



248 EVANGELINE. 

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld 
him, 

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and 
absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 

Over him years had no power ; he was not changed but trans- 
figured ; 

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not 
absent ; 

Patience, and abnegnation of self, and devotion to others, 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun- 
light, 

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watch- 
man repeated 

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 
suburbs 

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the 
market, 

Met he the meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous sounds, and mostly by flocks of wild 
pigeons, 



PART THE SECOND. V. 249 

Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws 

but an acorn, 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the 

meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the 

oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attend- 
ants, 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and 

woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and 

wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to 

echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have 

with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The 

dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and 

apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
silent, 



250 EVANGELINE. 

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms- 
house. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the 

garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and 

beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the 

east wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of 

Christ Church, 
And, intermingled with these, across the meadows were 

wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their 

church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her 

spirit ; 
Something within her said, — "At length thy trials are 

ended ;" 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of 

sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in 

silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their 

faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the 

road- side. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her 

presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a 

prison. 



PART THE SECOND. V. 251 

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the con- 
soler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 

Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder 

Han through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 
from her fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the 
morning. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible 
anguish, 

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old 
man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his 
temples ; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier man- 
hood; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its 
portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying he lay, and his spirit exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the 
darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied rever- 
berations, 



252 EVANGELINE. 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that suc- 
ceeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 

" G-abriel ! O my beloved !" and died away into silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child- 
hood; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 

Tillage, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under 
their shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents un- 
uttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue 
would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside 
him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into 
darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her 

bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 

thee!" 



PART THE SECOND. V. 253 

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its 

shadow, 
Side by side in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and 

for ever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from 

their labours, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 

journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its 

branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of 

homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story ; 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring 

ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the 

forest. 



^rottHlfltinuj. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 33 

FROM BISHOP TEGNEE. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the 
village 

Stood gleaming white in the morning's sheen. On the spire 
of the belfry 

Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of the Spring- 
sun 

Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles afore- 
time. 

Clear was the heaven and blue; and May, with her cap 
crowned with roses, 

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields; and the wind and the 
brooklet 

Murmured gladness and peace, God's peace ! With lips rosy 
tinted 

Whispered the race of the flowers ; and merry, on balancing 
branches, 

17 



258 TEANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the 

Highest. 
Swept and clean was the church-yard. Adorned like a leaf- 
woven arbour 
Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within, upon each cross of 

iron, 
Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new-twined by the hands 

of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a fountain among the departed, 
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished 

with blossoms 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the 

hamlet, 
Who on his birth-day is crowned by children and children's 

children ; 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of 

iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the swift- 
changing moment, 
While all around at his feet an eternity slumbered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 
In which the young, their parents' hope, and the loved ones of 

heaven, 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their 

baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and 

the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted 

benches. 
There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy 

Pavilions 34 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the 

church wall 



THE CHILDEEN OF THE LOED's SUPPEE. 259 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of 
oak-wood 

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, 
washed with silver, 

Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on of wind- 
flowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by 
Horberg, 35 

Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of 
angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of the shadowy leaf- 
work, 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the 
ceiling ; 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the 
sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was 

assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 
Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the 

organ. 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in Heaven, when he cast off from him his 

mantle, 
Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one 

voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, 36 of David's harp in the Northland, 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its powerful 

pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 



260 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

And every face did shine like the Holy One's face upon 

Tabor. 
Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend 

Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly 

plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy 

winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 
Walked he among the crowds ; but still a contemplative 

grandeur 
Lay on his forehead, as clear as on moss-covered grave-stone 

a sun-beam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of 

creation,) 
Th' artist, the friend of heaven, imagines St. John when in 

Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old 

man : 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of 

silver. 
All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered : 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old 

man, 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost 

chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the 

old man : 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart 

came, 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 281 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the 

desert. 
Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the 

chancel, 
Followed therein by the young. On the right hand the boys 

had their places", 
Delicate figures, with close curling hair and cheeks rosy- 
blooming. 
But on the left hand of these, there stood the tremulous 

lilies, 
Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the diffident 

maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on 

the pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the 

beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but 

the old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines 

eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips un- 
polluted. 
Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the 

Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all cour- 

tesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among 

them. 
And to the children explained he the Holy, the Highest, in 

few words, 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, — for sublimity always is 

simple, — 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 



262 TBANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Spring-tide 
approaches, 

Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the radiant sun- 
shine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected 
blossom 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the 
breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and 
mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at each well- worded 
answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and straightway 
transfigured 

(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 

Like the Lord's prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as 
Judgment, 

Stood he, the G-od commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward 
descending, 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were trans- 
parent, 

Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low, like the thunder afar off. 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he 
questioned. 

" This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles 

delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptised you, while 

still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of 

heaven. 



THE CHILDEEN OP THE LOEd's STTPPEE. 263 

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its 
bosom ; 

"Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant 
splendour 

Eains from the heaven downward ; — to-day on the threshold 
of childhood 

Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your 
election, 

For she knows nought of compulsion, and only conviction 
desireth. 

This is the hour of your trial, the turning point of ex- 
istence, 

Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 

Now from your lips the confession : bethink ye, before ye 
make answer ! 

Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning 
Teacher. 

Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon false- 
hood. 

Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multitude hears 
you, 

Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is 
and holy, 

Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge ever- 
lasting 

Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting 
beside him 

Grave your confession in letters of fire, upon tablets 

eternal. 
Thus then, — Believe ye in G-od, in the Father who this 

world created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son ? and the Spirit, where both 
are united ? 



264 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Will ye promise me here (a holy promise !) to cherish 

God more than all things earthly, and every man as a 

brother ? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your 

living, 
Th* heavenly faith of affection ! .to hope, to forgive, and to 

suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in 

uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God and man ?" — With a 

clear voice 
Answered the young men, Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly- 
breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow 

of the Teacher 
Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake on in accents 

more gentle, 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven be 

ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers 

and sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ? Of such is the kingdom 

of heaven, 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one 

Father, 
Ruling them as his own household — forgiving in turn and 

chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught 

us. 
Blessed are the pure before God ! Upon purity and upon 

virtue 



THE CHILDKEN OF THE LOED'S ST7PPEK. 265 

Resteth the Christian faith ; she herself from on high is 

descended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the 

doctrine 
Which the Godlike delivered, and on the cross suffered and 

died for. 
O ! as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill 

valley, 
O ! how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn 

backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judg- 
ment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a 

mother, 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was for- 
given : 
Life was a play, and your hands grasped after the roses of 

heaven ! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father Eternal 
Gave to me gladness and care ; but the loveliest hours of 

existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly 

known them, 
Known them all, all again; — they were my childhood's 

acquaintance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of 

existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride 

of man's childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the 

blessed, 
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roaring billows 



266 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is 

sleeping. 
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the 

desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth 
Nought of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful 

and humble, 
Follows so long as she may her Friend; O do not reject 

her, 
For she cometh from G-od and she holdeth the keys of the 

heavens. — 
Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly flieth incessant 
'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 
Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the spirit 
Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flames ever 

upward. 
Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, 
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more 

freshly the flowers, 
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged 

angels, 
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick 

for heaven 
Longs the wanderer again; and the spirit's longings are 

worship ; 
Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is 

entreaty. 
Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the 

grave-yard, — 
Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrowing children 
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and 

consoles them. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD ? S SUPPER. 267 

Yet it is better to pray when all things are prosperous 

with us, 
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 
Kneels down before the Eternal's throne ; and with hands 

interfolded, 
Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not 

from Heaven? 
What has mankind, forsooth, the poor ! that it has not 

received ? 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of Him who 
Huug his masonry pendant on nought, when the world he 

created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his 

glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from 

heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of mid- 
night, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but 

counts them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the Judge 

is terrific, 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in 

his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the 

roebuck. 
Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful Avenger, 
Ah ! is a merciful G-od ! G-od's voice was not in the 

earthquake, 
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering 

breezes. 



268 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; worlds without 

number 
Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for this pur- 
pose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his 

Spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of 

heaven. 
Quench, O quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your 

being. 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that you may be 

happy 
Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the 

death-hour 
Solemnised Love its triumph: the sacrifice then was com- 
pleted. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the temple, 

dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres 

rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each 

other 
Th 5 answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma — 

Atonement ! 
Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is 

Atonement. 
Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father ; 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but 

affection ; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is 

willing ; 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LOED's SUPPEE. 269 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love 
only. 

Lovest thou G-od as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise 
thy brethren ; 

One is the son in heaven, and one, only one, is love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his fore- 
head ? 

Eeadest thou not in his face thine origin? Is he not 
sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not 
guided 

By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate 
then thy brother ? 

Hateth he thee, forgive! Eor't is sweet to stammer one 
letter 

Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called For- 
giveness ! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns 
round his temples ; 

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost 
thou know him ? 

Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his 
example, 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his 
failings, 

Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly Shep- 
herd 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its 
mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we 
know it. 

Love is the creature's welfare with God ; but Love among 
mortals 



270 TKANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands 

waiting, 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth his recompense, — Hope, the 

befriending, 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, 

and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and 

beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of 

shadows ! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 
Having nought else beside Hope. Then praise we our 

Father in heaven, 
Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been 

illumined, 
Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living 

Assurance. 
Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of 

affection, 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in 

marble. 
Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the 

Prophet's, 
For she has looked upon G-od ; the heaven on its stable 

foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the new Jerusalem 

sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapours descending. 
There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures 

majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her 

homestead. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 271 

Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow sponta- 
neous, 

Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is 
an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more 
than 

Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the animate Spring- 
tide. 

Works do follow us all unto G-od ; there stand and bear wit- 
ness 

Not what they seemed, but what they were only. Blessed is 
he who 

Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until 
death's hand 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er 
alarm you ? 

Death is the brother of Love, and twin-brother is he, and is 
only 

More austere to behold. "With a kiss upon lips that are 
fading 

Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the arms of 
affection, 

Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its 
Father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his 
pinions, 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear 
not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face to face 
standing 

Look I on G-od as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapours ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 



272 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an 

anthem, 
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by 

angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, He one day shall 

gather, 
Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye loved ones, 

hereafter ! 
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the 

promise, 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; ear ch shall ye heed 

not ; 
Earth is but dust, and heaven is light : I have pledged you to 

heaven. 
God of the universe, hear me ! thou Fountain of Love ever- 
lasting, 
Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to 

thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all 

these, 
Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like 

a father. 
May they bear witness for me that I taught them the way of 

salvation, 
Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; again may they know 

me, 
Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place 

them, 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming 

with gladness, 
' Father, lo ! I am here, and the children whom thou hast 

given me !'" 



THE CHILDBEN OF THE LORD S SUPPEK. 273 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of 

the old man, 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's 

enclosure. 
Kneeling he read them the prayers of the consecration, and 

softly 
With him the children read ; at the close, with tremulous 

accents, 
Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for the day ; the following 

Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy 

Supper. 
Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent, 

and laid his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; while 

thoughts high and holy 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with 

wonderful brightness. 
" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the 

grave -yard ! • 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 
Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the hour is 

accomplished. 
Warm is the heart ! — I will so ! for to-day grows the harvest 

of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now ; for what failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend Father. 
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in 

heaven, 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement ? 
What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you 

often. 

18 



274 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 
Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and 

transgressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the 

beginning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown 

o'er the 
Fall to this day : in the Thought is the Fall ; in the heart the 

Atonement. 
Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite likewise. 
See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and 

forward 
Far as hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 
Sin and Atonement incessant go through the life-time of 

mortals. 
Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in our 

bosoms 
Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of 

angels 
Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's 

strings, 
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of 

Atonement. 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes 

all resplendent, 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and over- 
comes her. 
Downward to earth he came, and transfigured, thence re- 
ascended ; 
Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the 

Spirit, 
Loves and atones evermore. So long as time is, is Atonement. 



THE CHILDEEN OF THE LORD'S SUPPEE. 275 

Therefore with reverence receive this day her visible token. 
Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The light ever- 
lasting 
Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the eye that has 

vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is 

hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amend- 
ment, 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes 

all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide 

extended, 
Penitence weeping and praying; the "Will that is tried, and 

whose gold flows 
Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind by 

Atonement 
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine- 
cup. 
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his 

bosom, 
Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed 

body, 
And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth and 

drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this preserve us, thou heavenly 

Father! 
Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atone- 
ment ?" 
Thus with emotion he asked ; and together answered the 

children, 
"Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due 
supplications, 



276 TRANSLATIONS. SWEDISH. 

Bead the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and 

anthem : 
O ! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our trans- 
gressions, 
Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon 

us! 
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his 

eyelids, 
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical 

symbols. 
O ! then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of 

mid-day, 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the 

church-yard 
Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the 

graves 'gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it), there 

ran a 
Tremour of holy rapture along through their icy-cold 

members. 
Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, 

and above it 
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; there saw 

they 
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the 

Redeemer. 
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels 

from gold clouds 
Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of 

purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task ; and with heaven in their 
hearts and their faces, 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 277 

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full 

sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed 

he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of 

blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 



278 TEANSLATIONS. DANISH. 



Daitisjr. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMAEK. 

FEOM JOHANNES EVALD. 

King Cheistian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly !" shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The stork?" 

Nils Juel 37 gave heed to the tempest's roar, 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore, 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

"Now is the hour!" 
" Fly !" shouted they, " for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power ?" 

North sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 279 

Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
G-oes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

[The following strange and somewhat mystic ballad is from Nyerup and Eahbek's 
Dmishe Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first 'preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three 
maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the 
original have' been carefully preserved in the translation.] 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 
Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 

But never, ah never can meet with the man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 



280 TRANSLATIONS . DANISH. 

He saw under the hill-side 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 

And it was sharper than diamond stone, 
It made Sir Oluff's heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down : 
" Art thou Christ of Heaven ?" quoth he, 
" So will I yield me unto thee.*' 

" I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest maidens have me bedight." 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 281 

" Art tkou a Knight elected, 

And have three maidens thee bedight ; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens' honour!" 

The first tilt they together rode, 

They put their steeds to the test ; 
The second tilt they together rode, 

They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 

Neither of them would yield ; 
The fourth tilt they together rode, 

They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 

And their blood runs unto death ; 
Now sit the maidens in the high tower, 

The youngest sorrows till death. 



282 TRANSLATIONS. ANGLO-SAXON. 



!ngln-!aiH!L 



THE GEAVE. 

Foe thee was a house built 
Ere thou was born, 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother earnest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel- ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold 
Dimly and dark. 



THE GEAVE. 283 

Doorless is that house 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained, 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend, 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee. 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee 
And descend after thee, 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



284 TRANSLATIONS. GEEMAN. 



firman. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. 

Theee sat one day in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Khine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand, 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Ha !" cried a Saxon, laughing, — ■ 
And dashed his beard with wine,— 

" I had rather live in Lapland, 
Than that Swabian land of thine ! 



THE WAVE. 285 

" The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand !" 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon!" 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
" If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bugle, 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 

And said, " Ye may no more contend, — 
There lies the happiest land !" 



THE WAYE, 



FKOil TIEDGE. 



" Whithee, thou turbid wave ? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou?" 



286 



TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 



" I am the wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dnst : 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream, I fly 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 




THE DEAD. 



FEOM KLOPSTOCK. 

How they so softly rest, 
All., all the holy dead, 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 



THE BIKD AND THE SHIP. 287 

How they so softly rest, 
All in their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down- sinking ! 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIKD AND THE SHIP. 



FEOM MULLEE. 



" The rivers rush into the sea, 
By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 

Their noisy trumpets blow. 

> 

" The clouds are passing far and high, 

We little birds in them play ; 
And everything that can sing and fly 

Goes with us, and far away. 

"I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence, 
With thy fluttering golden band ?" — 

" I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land 



288 TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 

" Full and swollen is every sail ; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

" I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

" High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When the merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 



" Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day, 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

4 

" Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 

And this same song, my whole life long, 
Neither poet nor printer may know." 



WHITHER? 



FROM MULLER. 



heaed a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 
Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 
. Nov who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward, 
All with my pilgrim- stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther, 

And ever the brook beside ; 
And ever fresher murmured, 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 
19 



290 TBANSLATIONS. GEKMAN. 



BEWARE ! 

I know a maiden, fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL. 291 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



SOJSTG OF THE BELL. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell, thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily : 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say! how canst thou mourn P 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 



292 



TKANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 



. God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 
Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it, 
Trembling in the storm ! 




THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



FKOM UHLAND. 



" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea? 
Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously* 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 293 

" And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening's crimson glow." 

" Well have I seen that castle, 
That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing. 
And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 
Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ?" 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye." 

" And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 
And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there ; 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair ?" 

" Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow,- in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side !" 



294 TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM TJHLAND. 

'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness, 

Thus began the King, and spake : 
So from the halls 
" Of ancient Hof burg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly, 

From balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight, 
Eode at last a sable Knight. 

" Sir Knight ! your name and 'scutcheon, say !" 
Should I speak it here, 
" Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I 'm a Prince of mighty sway !" 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the castle 'gan to rock. 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock. 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 295 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 

Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

"Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark, 
Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 

" Golden wine will make you whole !" 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank ; 

" O that draught was very cool !" 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colourless grow utterly. 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear- struck father gray, 

He beholds his children die. 



296 



TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 



Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father!" 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

(S Boses in the spring I gather !" 




SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 



PBOM SALIS. 



Into the silent land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 



THE LUCK OP EDENHALL. 297 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning- visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and band ! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand, 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 



FEOM UHLAND. 



[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the " shards of the Luck 
of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir 
Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely 
shattered as the, ballad leaves it.] 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 
He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
" Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall !" 



298 TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall : 
They call it the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal !" 

The gray -beard with trembling hand obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Grave to my sires the Fountain- Sprite ; 
She wrote in it : If this glass doth fall, 
Farewell then, Luck of Fdenhall ! 

" 'Twas right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Deep draughts drink we rignt willingly ; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall!" 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall ! 

" For its keeper takes a race of might, 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
It has lasted longer than is right ; 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIE. 299 

Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 
Will I try the luck of EdenhaU I" 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift the wild flames start : 
The guests in dust are scattered all, 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword : 
He in the night had scaled the wall ; 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
The gray -beard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks, in the dismal ruin's fall, 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day, like the Luck of Edenhall!" 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIE. 

FROM PFIZER. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab -like, is pitched my tent, 
And straight again is furled. 



300 TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked ; 

And in the sweet repose of life, 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought : 
To a grave so cold and deep 

The mother beautiful was brought ; 
Then dropped the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 

Two locks — and they are wondrous fair — 

Left me that vision mild : 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead, 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR 



FR01I JULIUS MOSEX= 



Foems of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he, calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 

O, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, green leaves and blossoms, 

Up to heaven's door would bear, 
Calling, even in storm and tempest, 
Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 



FEOil JULIUS MOSEN. 



On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 



302 TEANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A poor bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness ; — 
" Blest be thou of all the good! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood !" 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered quite with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE HEMLOCK-TEEE. 

O hemlock-teee ! O hemlock-tree ! how faithful are thy 
branches ! 
Green not alone in summer time, 
But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
O hemlock-tree ! O hemlock-tree ! how faithful are thy 
branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 

To love me in prosperity, 

And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom. 



ANNIE OF THARAW, 303 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou takest for thine example ; 

So long as summer lasts she sings, 

But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou takest for thine example. 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy false- 
hood! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy false- 
hood! 



ANNIE OF THAKAW. 

FEOM SIMOx DACH. 

Annie of Thar aw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, — 



• 



304 TEANSLATIONS. GEKMAN. 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me, to wander alone 
In a desolate land, where the sun is scarce known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 

Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand P 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife, 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 
I am king of the household, thou art its queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to heaven the hut where we dwell, 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEAELS. 



FROM HEINRICH HEINE, 



The sea hath its pearls, 

The heaven hath its stars ; 
But my heart, my heart, 

My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven : 

Yet greater is my heart, 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou, little youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
Are melting away with love ! 



POETIC APHOEISMS. 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGATJ. — SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 

MONEY. 

Whekeunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST MEDICINES. 

Joy, and Temperance, and Eepose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 
20 



306 TRANSLATIONS. GERMAN. 

SIN. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 

POVEETY AND BLINDNESS. 

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is, 
For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees. 

LAW OF LIFE. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbour honestly, 
Die I, so die I. 

CEEEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines 

three 
Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be 
ground. 

CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it 

bespoke ; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the 

smoke. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 30, 



ART AND TACT. 



Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 



RETRIBUTION. 



Though the mills of G-od grind slowly, yet they grind ex- 
ceeding small ; 

Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness 
grinds He all. 



TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's 

fire, 
Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth silences the 

liar. 

RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine sound not well in strangers' 

ears, 
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with 

theirs ; 
For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, 
They will be most highly valued where they are best and 

longest known. 



308 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 



Ipauisjj. 



COPLAS DE MAJNTKIQUE. 38 

O let the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake j 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past, — 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Hemembered like a tale that 's told, 
They pass away. 



COPLAS DE MANEIQUE. 309 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal. Side by side, 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

The Eternal Truth,— the Good and Wise,— 

To him I cry, 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
W r hich leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above : 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 



310 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 

In life we run the onward race, 

And reach the goal ; 

When, in the mansions of the blessed, 

Death leaves to its eternal rest 

The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 

Yes, — the glad Messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
The shapes we chase, 
Amid a world of treachery ! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, chances strange, 

Disastrous accidents, and change, 

That come to all : 

Even in the most exalted state, 

Eelentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 



COPLAS DE MANEIQUE. 311 

Tell me — tke charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 

The glorious strength that youth imparts 

In life's first stage ; 

These shall become a heavy weight, 

When Time swings wide his outward gate 

To weary Age. 

The noble blood of G-othic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The 'scutcheon that, without a stain, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth, and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they 

Of fickle heart. 



312 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

These gifts in fortune's hands are found ; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, nits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust — 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They sealed the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
What are they, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall ? 

INo foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay — but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 313 

Could we new charms to age impart. 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace ; 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power ! 
What ardour show, 
To deck the sensual slave of sin, 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Eome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 



314 TKANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the king, Don Juan ? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Arragon? 

Where are the courtly gallantries, 

The deeds of love, and high emprise 

In battle done ? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding plume — 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green, 
That deck the tomb ? 

Where are the high-born dames, and where 

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 

And odours sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 

To kneel, and breathe love's ardent name, 

Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

The dancers wore ? 



COPLAS DE MANKIQUE. 315 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But O ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts — the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
In rich array — 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 



316 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

But lie was mortal ; and the breath 
That named from the hot forge of Death 
Blasted his years ; " 

Judgment of G-od ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spam's haughty Constable — the true 
And gallant Master, — whom we knew 
Most loved of all, — 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride ; 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, — 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 

His hamlets green and cities fair, 

His mighty power ; — 

What were they all but grief and shame, 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 



COPLAS DE MANEIQTTE. 317 

So many a Duke of royal name, 
Marquis and Count of spotless fame, 
And Baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield ; 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh — 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around, 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 

And covered trench, secure and deep, — 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee, 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 



318 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

Oar days are covered o'er with grief ; 

And sorrows, neither few nor brief, 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

INTo pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade, 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As virtue's son — 

Hoderic Manrique — he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy — 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung F 

The name that dwells on every tongue 

~No minstrel needs. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 319 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal nef ! 
To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 

What prudence with the old and wise ; 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness ; his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector ; and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause ; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 



320 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

No massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors — and, in their fall, 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honoured and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 

After high deeds, not left untold, 

In the stern warfare, which of old 

'T was his to share, 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 

And fairer regions than before 

His guerdon were. 



COPLAS DE MANEIQUE. 321 

These are the records, half-effaced, 

Which with the hand of youth he traced 

On history's page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power ; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valour of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 
His life upon the fatal throw 
Had been cast down ; 
When he had served with patriot zeal, 
Beneath the banner of Castile, 
His sovereign's crown ; 

21 



322 TBANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

And done such deeds of valour strong, 

That neither history nor song 

Can count them all ; 

Then, on Ocana's castled rock, 

Death at his portal came to knock, 

With sudden call, — 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armour for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 

" Since thou hast been, in battle strife, 
So prodigal of health and life, 
For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 

" Think not the struggle that draws near 
Too terrible for man, — nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

" A life of honour and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, — 
'T is but a name ; 
And yet its glory far exceeds 
That base and sensual life, which leads 
To want and shame. 



COPLAS DE MANEIQUE. 323 

" The eternal life, beyond the sky, 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 
The soul in dalliance laid — the spirit 
Corrupt with sin — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 
His prayers and tears ; 
And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O'er all the land, 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 

" Cheered onward by this promise sure, 
Strong in the faith, entire and pure, 
Thou dost profess, 
Depart, — thy hope is certainty, — 
The third, the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess." 

" O Death, no more, no more delay ; 
My spirit longs to flee away, 
And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be,— 
I bow to the Divine decree, 
To God's behest. 



324 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 

" My soul is ready to depart, 
No thought rebels, the obedient heart 
Breathes forth no sigh ; 
The wish on earth to linger still 
Were vain, when *t is God's sovereign will 
That we shall die. 

" O thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

" And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me !" 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him who gave it rose ; 

God led it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 



V 




THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 



FEOM LOPE DE VEGA. 



Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, — 
That madest thy crook from the accursed tree, 
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 
For thou my Shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
Hear, Shepherd ! — thou who for thy flock art dying, 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Hejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
O, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me ! 



326 TBANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 



TO-MORROW. 



FROM LOPE DE VEGA. 



Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 
Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
O strange delusion ! — that I did not greet 
Thy blest approach, and O, to heaven how lost, 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 
How he persists to knock and wait for thee !" 
And, O ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 

" To-morrow we will open," I replied, 
And when the morrow came, I answered still, " To-morrow." 



THE NATIVE LAND. 



FEOil FKAXCISCO DE ALDANA. 



Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade, 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye, 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
Grasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 



328 TRANSLATIONS. SPANISH. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 



FBOM FKANCISCO DE ALDA^A. 



O Lord ! thou seest, from yon starry height, 

Centered in one, the future and the past, 

Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 

The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given, 

To cheer life's ilowery April, fast decays ; 

Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, 

For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 

Before my spirit, and an image fair 

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 

And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BEOOK. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count ! 
How without malice murmuring, glides thy current ! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shunst the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount ! 



330 TEANSLATIONS. FKENCH. 



^r j u i jr. 



SPEING. 

FEOM CHAELES D'OELEANS. — XV. CENTUEY. 

Gentle Spring ! — in sunshine clad, 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For winter maketh the light heart sad, 

And thou — thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 

But, heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 331 



And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for nought both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 




THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee — alone for thee ! 



332 TRANSLATIONS. FRENCH. 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow, 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 

Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! he but slept ; I breathe again ; 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
O ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



Italian. 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. — PURGATOKIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morning. 
Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it ! — 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 

Little by little, there came forth another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot, 

He cried aloud : " Quick, quick, and bow the knee ! 
Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

r< See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 



334 TRANSLATIONS. ITALIAN. 

" See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 
That do not monlt themselves like mortal hair ?" 

And then, as nearer and more near ns came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed nought thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the celestial pilot ! 

Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 

And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

" In exitu Israel out of Egypt !" 
Thus sang they altogether in one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made He sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TEEEESTEIAL PAEADISE. 

FROM DANTE.— PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living green, 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 335 

A gently -breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that side 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
When iEolus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 

Could see no more the place where I had entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 
Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, 
Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid are, 

Would seem to have within themselves some mixture 

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, 

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
B,ay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 






iiHtintinl $n*nt0. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks ; 
He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool ; 



342 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighbouring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulphs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapours that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 343 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colours seven 



344 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Climbing up once more to heaven 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



AFTEKNOON IN FEBEUABY 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes, 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 



WALTER YON DEE YOOELWEID. 345 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
"Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within, 
Like a funeral bell. 



WALTEE VON DEE VOGELWEID. 

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
G-ave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 



s: 



346 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song : 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed : 

And, fulfilling his desire, 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 

In foul weather and in fair, 
Day by day, in vaster numbers, 

Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 

Overshadowed all the place, 
On the pavement, on the tombstone, 

On the poet's sculptured face, 

On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 
They renewed the War of Wartburg, 

Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Yogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 
Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 



THE OCCULTATION OF OEION. 347 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 

From the walls and woodland nests, 
When the minster bells rang noontide, 

Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 

Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 

For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 

On the cloister's funeral stones, 
And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 

By sweet echoes multiplied, 
Still the birds repeat the legend, 

And the name of Yogelweid. 



THE OCCULTATION OF OBION. 

I saw, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight, 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 



348 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Greater and deeper mysteries. 

I saw, with its celestial keys, 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samian's great iEolian lyre, 

Eising through all its sevenfold bars, 

From earth unto the fixed stars. 

And through the dewy atmosphere, 

Not only could I see, but hear, 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 

From Dian's circle fight and near, 

Onward to vaster and wider rings, 

Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 

Majestic, mournful Saturn goes, 

And down the sunless realms of space 

Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 
The moon was pallid, but not faint j 
Yet beautiful as some fair saint, 



THE OCCULTATION OF OKION. 349 

Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from his outstretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull ; but he 

Heeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by (Enopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead 
An angel with a trumpet said, 
f Forevermore, forevermore, 
The reign of violence is o'er !" 
And, like an instrument that flings 
Its music on another's strings, 
The trumpet of the angel cast 
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 



350 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 
Reechoed down the burning chords, — 
" Eorevermore, for evermore, 
The reign of violence is o'er !" 



THE BRIDGE. 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, 
The blaze of the flaming furnace 

G-leamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 



THE BRIDGE. 351 



And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me, 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river, 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odour of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 



352 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 
And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes, 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Oma- 

whaws ; 
Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou 

hast taken ! 
Wrapt in the scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the 

city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of 

rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their 

footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the 

footprints ? 



TO THE DKIVING CLOUD. 353 

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the 

green turf of the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the 

sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 't is vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost 

challenge 
Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these 

pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting grounds, while down- 
trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns 

that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its 

division ! 
Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the 

Wabash ! 
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of 

the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of 

their branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk- 
horn, 
Or by the roar of the E/unning-Water, or where the Oma- 

whaw 
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of 

the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those 

mountainous deserts ! 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty 

Behemoth, 

23 



354 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

"Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the 

thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red 

man? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the 

Foxes ; 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of 

Behemoth. 

Lo ! the big thunder- canoe, that steadily breasts the Mis- 
souri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the 

camp-fires 
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the 

gray of the day-break 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous 

horse-race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the 

Camanches ! 
Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the 

blast of the east wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy 

wigwams ! 



CAEILLOK 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
Changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Hang the beautiful wild chimes 



CARILLON. 355 



From the belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 
Then, with deep sonorous clangour 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher, home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune -telling 
Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling. 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 



356 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 

In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 

Listening with a wild delight 

To the chimes that, through the night, 

[Rang their changes from the belfry 

Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



TO A CHILD. 

Deae child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw, 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 
Those silver bells 
Reposed of yore, 
As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep sunken wells 
Of darksome mines, 
In some obscure and sunless place, 
Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 
Or steep Potosi's mountain pines ! 
And thus for thee, O little child, 



358 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Through many a danger and escape, 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hear est footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

~No more thy mother's smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor. 

That won thy little beating heart before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 



TO A CHILD. • 359 

The sound of thy merry voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart, 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

!N*o shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty, 

Thou cares t little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 

JNow shouting to the apples on the tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 



360 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

The tracks of thy small carriage wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah ! cruel little Tamerlane, 

"Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, 

And voice more beautiful than poet's books, 

Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 

Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 

This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 

With its o'erhanging golden canopy 

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 

And shining with the argent light of dews, 

Shall for a season be our place of rest. 

Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 

From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 

A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 

And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

O child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 



TO A CHILD. 361 



Here at the portal thou dost stand, 

And with thy little hand 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future's undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

]\f en sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with nickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light, 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ! 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Hounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 



362 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labour, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labour there shall come forth rest. 



And if a more auspicious fate 

On thy advancing steps await, 

Still let it ever be thy pride 

To linger by the labourer's side ; 

With words of sympathy or song 

To cheer the dreary march along, 

Of the great army of the poor, 

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 

The wisdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 

Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 

And hearing the hammers, as they smote 

The anvils with a different note, 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 

Vibrant on every iron tongue, 

The secret of the sounding wire, 

And formed the seven- chorded lyre. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 363 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 

There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasp thee rudely, 
At the ale-house. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 



364 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As these leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from the suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 
Who, in solitary chambers, 
And with hearts by passion wasted, 
Wrote thy pages . 

Thou recallest homes, 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore. 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 



DEINKING SONG. 365 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ;*— 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering song shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



DEIJNTKING SONQ. 

INSCRIPTION FOE AN ANTIQUE PITCHEE. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

Prom the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



366 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken, 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations, 
Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. 

Judged by no o'er-zealous rigour, 
Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigour, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 367 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons, 
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Hedi, though he chaunted 

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 
Never drank the wine he vaunted 

In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher, 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIES. 

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balaneier dit et redit sans cesse ces 
deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : " Toujours ! jamais ! Ja- 
mais ! toujours!" 

JAQUES BEIDAINE. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 



368 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 3G9 

His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeletons at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, 
" Forever— never ! 
Never — forever !" 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ; 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ! 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?" 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 
24 



370 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear- 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 



THE AEEOW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth* I know not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



THE EVENING STAK. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the west, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 

The evening star, the star of love and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppress'd. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above, 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, 

And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



372 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 40 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended, 
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realm of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 

What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease ; 

And as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace !" 



374 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



CUEFEW. 



I. 

Solemnly, mournfully. 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 
And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



II. 

The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 



CUBFEW. 375 



Dim grows its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened. 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall : 
Sleep and oblivion 

Eeign over all. 



€\i inisib. 



$jjj f\xxn\t. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 

And, seeing not the forms from which they come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens ; 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, 
A nd pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told, 
Has ever given delight or consolation, 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand fold, 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 

Friends are around us, though no words be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 

And are to us, as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 



380 DEDICATION. 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old, 

But live for ever young in my remembrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 

Your gentle voices will flow on for ever, 
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 

But the endeavour for the selfsame ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting, with intrusive talk, 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 
At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, 

To have my place reserved among the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 



BY THE SEASIDE 




THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



" Build me straight, O worthy Master! 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

A.nd with wave and whirlwind wrestle !" 



382 BY THE SEASIDE. 

The merchant's word, 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace to every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee 

He answered, "Ere long we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea !" 

And first, with nicest skill and art, 
Perfect and finished in every part, 
A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 
Its counterpart in miniature ; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labour might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of all, 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there, 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
And eight round towers, like those that frown 
From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 383 

And lie said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another form than this I" 

It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 

Pressing down upon sail and mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of parted seas, 

Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the shipyard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around ; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 

And, scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 



384 BY THE SEASIDE. 

There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil, 
Must bring its tribute great or small, 
And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity, 

The heir of his house and his daughter's hand, 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned. 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 385 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and G-eorgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee !" 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 
25 



386 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the shipyard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip, 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labour well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 

The young man at the Master's door 

Sat with the maiden calm and still. 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 

Of wrecks in the great September gales, 

Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again ; 

The chance and change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind ; 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 

Where the tumbling surf, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 387 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery, 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson knee, 

Till framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, up wreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 



388 BY THE SEASIDE. 

And amid the clamours 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men : — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle !" 

With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows aright ! 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 389 

Behold, at last, 
Each, tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place ; 41 
Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago, 

In the deer -haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow, 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them for evermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the mast head 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless. 

In foreign harbours shall behold 



390 BY THE SEASIDE. 

The flag unrolled, 

'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendours dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honour of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 391 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the nags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny neck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

"With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 



392 BY THE SEASIDE. 

" Like unto ships far off at sea, 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around, 
Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 
Seems at its outer rim to rise, 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to turn and sink, 
As if we could slide from its outer brink. 
Ah ! it is not the sea, 
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 
But ourselves 
That rock and rise 
With endless and uneasy motion, 
Now touching the very skies, 
Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level, and ever true 
To the toil and the task we have to do, 
"We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 
Will be those of joy and not of fear !" 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 393 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, — 
: ' Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms, 
With all her youth and all her charms !" 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear ! 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 



394 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity, with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'T is of the wave, and not the rock ; 

'T is but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 



THE EVENING STAE. 395 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendour, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 
For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 
Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; 

Is it a God, or is it a star, 
That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ? 



THE SECEET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me, 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor's mystic song. 



396 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
Where the sand as silver shines, 

With a soft monotonous cadence, 
Flows its unrhymed lyric lines ; — ■ 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand, 

Saw a fair and stately galley 
Onward steering to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 
Chant a song so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 

Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 
" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!" 

" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 
" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 
Comprehend its mystery !" 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Plash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night- wind, bleak and wild, 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
Drive the colour from her cheek ? 



398 BY THE SEASIDE. 



SIE HUMPHKEY GILBEKT.^ 

Southwakd with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed, 
And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And never more, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book was in his hand ; 
Do not fear! Heaven is as near," 

He said, "by water as by land !" 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 309 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 
Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 

At midnight black and cold ! 
As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground- swell rolled. 

Southward, through day and dark, 

They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain to the Spanish Main ; 

Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, for ever southward, 

They drift through dark and day ; 
And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream 

Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles away, 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 



400 



BY THE SEASIDE. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides, 
Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremour of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, 
With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher, it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 

And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 

And, when returning from adventures wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 401 

Stedfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on for evermore that quenchless name, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; 

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders .of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 

Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

" Sail on!" it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 
And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man !" 



26 



402 



BY THE SEASIDE. 




THE FIEE OF DEIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

"Not far away we saw the port, — 

The strange old-fashioned, silent town,- 

The light-house, — the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 



We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 



THE FIBE OF DEIFT-WOOD. 403 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 

When first they feel, with secret pain, 
Their fives thenceforth have separate ends, 

And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 

That words are powerless to express, 
And leave it still unsaid in part, 

Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap, and then expire. 

And, as their splendour flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, — 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, — 

The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 
The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 

All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 



404 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned 
They were indeed too much akin, 

The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within, 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 




RESIGNATION. 

Theee is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 



The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 



406 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

"Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ; 

Amid these earthly damps, 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day, we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 



THE BUILDEES. 407 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times, impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDEES. 

All are architects of Eate, 
Working in these walls of time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low, 

Each thing in its place is best ; 

And what seems but idle show, 
Strengthens and supports the rest. 



408 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 
Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part, 

For the gods are everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house where gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of time ; 

Broken stair-ways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base, 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESEKT IN AN HOUK-GLASS. 

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 

Of Arab deserts brought, 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 

The minister of Thonght. 

How many weary centuries has it been 

Abont those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 

Trampled and passed it o'er, 
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight 

His favourite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 

Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 

Scattered it as they sped ; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 

Illumed the wilderness ; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 

Pacing the Hed Sea beach, 
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 

In half articulate speech ; 



410 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Pate, 

And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have passed ! 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 

It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; — 

Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert, with its shifting sand, 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward and across the setting sun, 

Across the boundless plain, 
The column and its broader shadow run, 

Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



BIEDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapour fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above in the light 
Of the star -fit night, 
Swift birds of passage wing their night 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 

Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 



412 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light, 
It falls into our world of night 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 

And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 



king witlaf's drinking-hokn. 413 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 

Was standing by the door ; 
He looked for his ]ittle playmates, 

Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens, 

They played not in the hall ; 
But shadow, and silence, and sadness 

Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet familiar tone ; 
But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand! 



KING WITLAF'S DEINKISTG-HOBK 

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed,— 

That whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 



414 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened, 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 

And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees,. 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Gruthlac and Bartholomaeus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the yule-log cracked in the chimney, 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 

And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 
But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 



GASPAR BECERRA. 415 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 

We must drink to one Saint more !" 



GASPAE BECEEEA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 
Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 

'T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought ; 

Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 

Sat he now in shadows deep, 
And the day's humiliation 

Found oblivion in sleep, 

Then a voice cried, " Eise, O master ! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" 

And the startled artist woke, — 



416 BY THE FIBESIDE. 

Woke, and from the smoking embers, 
Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village, 
Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning, 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'T was the daily call to labour, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 

In its gleaming vapour veiled ; 
Not the less he breathed the odours 

That the dying leaves exhaled. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 417 

Thus, upon the village common, 

By the school-boys he was found ; 
And the wise men, in their wisdom, 

Put liim straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier, 

Singing loud his brazen bell, 
Wandered down the street proclaiming 

There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people, 

Erich and poor, and young and old, 
Came in haste to see this wondrous 

Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 

Fell, with vapours cold and dim ; 
But it brought no food nor shelter, 

Brought no straw nor stall for him. 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked he through the wooden bars, 
Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 

Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 

Sounded from its dark abode, 
And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard, 

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 

Breaking from his iron chain, 
And unfolding far his pinions, 

To those stars he soared again. 

27 



418 BY THE EIEESIDE. 

On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found, upon the greensward 
Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round, 

Strengthening all who drink its waters, 
While it soothes them with its sound. 



TEGNEK'S DEATH. 

I heaed a voice, that cried, 

Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead !" 

And through the misty air 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Of sunward sailing cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim, 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 



tegnek's DEATH. 419 

And the voice for ever cried, 

Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead !" 

And died away 

Through the dreary night, 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun, 
Fairest of all the Gods ! 
Light from his forehead beamed, 
Runes were upon his tongiie, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Kever to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe ! 
The sacred mistletoe ! 

Hceder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence, 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe, 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 



420 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea, 

Till like the moon it seemed, 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more. 

So perish the old Gods ! 
But out of the sea of Time 
Rises a new land of song, 
Fairer than the old. 
Over its meadows green 
Walk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race, 

Feed upon morning dew, 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer, 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
JSTo more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 
O ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of eld 
Preserve the freedom only, 
Not the deeds of blood ! 



SONNET. 

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS EROM SHAKSPEARE. 

O precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped ! 

Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 

And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 

How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 

Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 

Anticipating all that shall be said ! 

O happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught 

The rarest essence of all human thought ! 

O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 

To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



422 BY THE FIEESIDE. 



THE SI]N T GEES. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of gladness and of mirth, 
That they might touch the hearts of men 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing in the market-place, 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three, 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, "I see 

]N"o best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 



HYMN. 123 



" These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



SUSPIEIA. 

Take them, O Death ! and bear away- 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust, 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



HYMN 

FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said : " Yet one thing more ; 

If thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, 

And come and follow me!" 



424 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

Within the temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way, 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm, and say, 
"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?" 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark G-ethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John, 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 

And thus to journey on ! 



a r a est annus 




THE BLEN T D GIEL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 43 



PKOA[ THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 



Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright ; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill; 
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 



At the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Castel-CuiHe, 

When the apple, the plum, and the almond-tree 
In the plain below were growing white, 
This is the song one might perceive 

On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 



428 BY THE FIKESIDE. 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom aud bloom with garlauds gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, 

Each one with her attendant swain, 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the sky, 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven had sent 
For their delight and our encouragement. 

Together blending, 

And soon descending 

The narrow sweep 

Of the hill-side steep, 

They wind aslant 

Towards Saint Amant, 

Through leafy alleys, 

Of verdurous valleys, 

With merry sallies 

Singing their chant : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 



THE BLIND GIRL. 429 

The sky was blue, without one cloud of gloom, 

The sun of March was shining brightly, 
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 

Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 
To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom. 
A band of maidens 
G-ayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance, 
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest ; 
While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be!" 

And all pursue with eager haste, 
And all attain what they pursue, 
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 
These youthful maidens fresh and fair, 



430 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

So joyous, with such laughing air, 

Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? 

And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 

O, no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 

Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 

These are grand people, one would say. 
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill, 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and tender, 
Was the village pride and splendour, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But alas ! the summer's blight, 
The dread disease that none can stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. 
Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled ; 
Returned but three short days ago, 



THE BLIND GIRL. 431 

The golden chain they round him throw. 
He is enticed, and onward led 
To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried. 
" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! 
Here comes the cripple Jane !" And by a fountain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
She promises one' a Tillage swain, 
Another a happy wedding-day, 
And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 
All comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs, 

But for this once the village seer 
Wears a countenance severe. 
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 
Her two eyes flash, like cannons bright 
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, 
Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 
Changing colour, as well he might, 
When the beldame wrinkled and gray 
Takes the young bride by the hand, 
And, with the tip of her reedy wand 



432 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 
" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, 
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb !" 
And she was silent ! and the maidens fair 
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 
But on a little streamlet silver- clear, 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
Resumed the dance and song again ; 
The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies, 
They sang the refrain : 

" The roads should blossom, the -roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day !" 



THE BLIND GIKL. 433 



II 



And by suffering worn and weary, 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
Thus lamented Margaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

" He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past ; 

Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the star ! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
And count the moments since he went away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happier day, 
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted ! 
What joy have I without thee ? what delight ? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 

For ever night ! for ever night ! 
When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is sad ! 
I suffer ! O my G-od ! come, make me glad. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude ; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes. 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 

No more of grief ! no more of lassitude ! 
Earth I forget, and heaven, and all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 

But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 

28 



434 BY THE FIKESIDE. 

A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 
I need some bough to twine around ! 

In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 

True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 
What then — when one is blind ? 

" Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 

God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is he !" 

And the door ajar is set, 

And poor confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries : — 

" Angela the bride has passed ! 

1 saw the wedding-guests go by ; 

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
For all are there but you and I !" 

" Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

O, speak! who may the bridegroom be ?" 
" My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend !" 



THE BLIND GIRL. 435 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said 
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks ; 

An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 

Descending, as her brother speaks, 

Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 

Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 

Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 

How merrily they laugh and jest ! 

Would we were bidden with the rest ! 

I would don my hose of homespun gray, 

And my doublet of linen striped and gay ; 

Perhaps they will come ; for they do not wed 

Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said !" 
" I know it !" answered Margaret ; 
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 

Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 
" Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 

But leave me now for a while alone." 

Away, with a hop and jump, went Paul, 

And, as he whistled along the hall, 

Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath ! 



436 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

But thou art cold — art chill as death ; 

My little friend ! what ails thee, sweet ?" 
" Nothing ! I heard them singing home the bride ; 

And, as I listened to the song, 

I thought my turn would come ere long, 

Thou knowest it is at "Whitsuntide. 

Thy cards forsooth can never lie* 

To me such joy they prophesy, 

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 

When they behold him at my side. 

And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? 
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now !" 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 
" Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happiness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less !" 

" The more I pray the more I love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side !" 
It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 

But to deceive the beldame old 

She takes a sweet, contented air. 

Speak of foul weather or of fair, 

At every word the maiden smiles ! 

Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 
So that, departing at the evening's close, 

She says, " She may be saved! she nothing knows !" 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 



THE BLIND G-IEL. 437 



III. 



Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 
The one puts on her cross and crown, 
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 

The other, blind, within her little room, 

Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; 
But in their stead for something gropes apart, 

That in a drawer's recess doth lie, 
And 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 

Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing, 

And joyous singing, 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 

And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
" O G-od ! forgive me now !" 



438 BY THE FIBESIDE. 

And then the Orphan, young and blind, 
Conducted by her brother's hand, 
Towards the church, through paths unscanned, 
With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 

Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale, 
Round her at times exhale, 

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapours gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see, 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, 
Marvels of nature and of art, 
And proud of its name of high degree, 
A little chapel, almost bare 
At the base of the rock, is builded there ; 
All glorious that it lifts aloof, 
Above each jealous cottage roof, 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 
And its blackened steeple high in air, 
Round which the osprey screams and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. " Where are we ? we ascend ! " 

" Yes ; seest thou not our journey's end ? 
Hear'st not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father said, 
The night we watched beside his bed, 

' O daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am dying ! ' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying ? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in his shroud. 



THE BLIND GIEL. 439 

There is his grave ; there stands the cross we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ? 
Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 
Thou tremblest ! O my G-od ! thou art going to swoon !" 

She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 
" What wouldst thou do, my daughter ? " — and she started ; 

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted ; 
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 

Her steps towards the open door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 

Touches the crown of nligrane 

Suspended from the low-arched portal, 

]N"o more restrained, no more afraid, 

She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 

They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell, 
With booming sound, 
Sends forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not long, 
For soon arrives the bridal train, 
And with it brings the village throng. 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 



440 BY THE FIKESIDE. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 
To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 
Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, 
" How beautiful! how beautiful she is ! " 



But she must calm that giddy head, 

For already the Mass is said ; 

At the holy table stands the priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste receives it ; 
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 

He must pronounce one word at least ! 
'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side, 
" 'T is he !" a well-known voice has cried. 
And while the wedding-guests all hold their breath, 
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see ! 
" Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast wished my death, 
As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 

For anguish did its work so well, 

That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air ; 
Decked with flowers, a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear ; 

Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day, 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 



THE BLIND GIKL. 441 

" The roads should mourn and be veiled in gloom, 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to day ! 



442 BY THE FIRESIDE. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL." 

FEOM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAEOZAI. 

I heae along our street 

Pass the minstrel throngs ; 

Hark ! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 

Every day the chimes ; 

Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 

Where the Babe was born, 

Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



A CHftlSTMAS CAROL. 443 



These good people sang 

Songs devout and sweet ; 

While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing feet. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in frigid cells 

At this holy tide, 

For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have tried. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

Washerwomen old, 

To the sound they beat, 

Sing by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 

Stamps his feet and sings ; 

But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



fnbs 



1 Page 27. — Skoal ! to the Northland ! Skoal ! 

Ix Scandinavia, " Skoal" is the customary salutation when drinking 
a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in 
order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 

2 Page 47. — All the Foresters of Flanders. 
The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of Flanders, 
appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of 
Clotaire the Second, was the first of them; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, 
who stole away the fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from 
the French court, and married her in Bruges, was the last. After 
him, the title of Forester was changed to that of Count. Philippe 
d' Alsace, Gruy de Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the 
order of time, were therefore rather counts than Foresters. Philippe 
went twice to the Holy Land, as a Crusader, and died of the plague 
at St. Jean d'Acre, shortly after the capture of the city by the Chris- 
tians. Gruy de Dampierre died in the prison of Compiegne. Louis 
de Crecy was son and successor of Robert de Bethune, who strangled 
his wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with the bridle of his horse, for 
having poisoned, at the age of eleven years, Charles, his son by his 
first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 

3 Page 47. — Stately dames y like queens attended. 

"When Phillippe-le-Bel, Xing of France, visited Flanders, with his 

queen, she was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of 

Bruges, that she exclaimed, " Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il 

parait que ceux Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous 



446 NOTES. 

des princes, car leurs femmes sont habillees comme des princesses et 
des reines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres went to 
Paris, to pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with 
great pomp and distinction : but, being invited to a festival, they 
observed that their seats at table were not furnished with cushions ; 
whereupon, to make known their displeasure at this want of regard 
to their dignity, they folded their richly embroidered cloaks, and 
seated themselves upon them. On rising from table, they left their 
cloaks behind them, and being informed of their apparent forgetful- 
ness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, " We 
Flemings are not in the habit of carrying away our cushions after 
dinner." 

4 Page 47. — Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. 
Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of 
Portugal, on the 10th of January, 1430 j and on the same day insti- 
tuted the famous order of the Fleece of Gold. 

5 Page 48. — I beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of 
her father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the richest 
heiress of Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 
1477, and, in the same year, was married by proxy to the Archduke 
Maximilian. According to the custom of the time, the Duke of Ba- 
varia, Maximilian's substitute, slept with the princess. They were 
both in complete dress, separated by a naked sword, and attended 
by four armed guards. Isabella was adored by her subjects for her 
gentleness and her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is 
the same person mentioned afterwards in the poem of Nuremberg, as 
the Kaiser Maximilian, andthe hero of Pfinzing's poem of Teuerdank. 
Having been imprisoned by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they 
refused to release him till he consented to kneel in the public square, 
and to swear on the Holy Evangelists, andthe body of St. Donatus, 
that he would not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. 



y 



NOTES. 447 

6 Page 48. — The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. 
This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought 
under the walls of Court ray, on the 11th of July, 1302, between the 
French and the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte 
d'Artois, and the latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de 
jNTamur. The French army was completely routed, with a loss of 
twenty thousand infantry and seven thousand cavalry ; among whom 
were sixty-three princes, dukes, and counts, seven hundred lords -ban- 
neret, and eleven hundred noblemen. The flower of the French 
nobility perished on that day ; to which history has given the name 
of the Journee des Eperons d'Or, from the great number of golden 
spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred of them were 
hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de Court-ray ; 
and, as the cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, these 
vouched to God for the violent and bloody death of seven hundred 
of his creatures. 

7 Page 48. — Saw the fight at Minnewater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minne- 
water, to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, they 
were attacked and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce 
would have been much injured by the canal. They were led by Jean 
Lyons, captain of a military company at Ghent, called the chaperons 
blancs. He had great sway over the turbulent populace, who, in those 
prosperous times of the city, gained an easy livelihood by labouring 
two or three days in the week, and had the remaining four or five 
to devote to public affairs. The fight at Minnewater was followed by 
open rebellion against Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders, and 
Protector of Bruges. His superb chateau of Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents forced the gates of Bruges, 
and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their head. A few 
days afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village Nevele ; 
and two hundred of them perished in the church, which was burnt by 
the count's orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge 



448 NOTES. 

in the belfry. From the summit of the tower, he held forth his purse 
filled with gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in vain. His 
enemies cried to him from below to save himself as best he might j 
and, half suffocated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from 
the tower and perished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards 
established, and the count retired to faithful Bruges. 

8 Page 48. — The Golden Dragoris Nest. 

The G-olden Dragon, taken from the church of St. Sophia, at Con- 
stantinople, in one of the Crusades, and placed on the belfry of Bruges, 
was afterwards transported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, and 
still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Grhent is, " Mynen naem is 
Roland ; als ih Hep is er brand, and als iJc luy is er victorie in het 
land." My name is Roland; when I toll there is tire, and when I 
ring there is victory in the land. 

9 Page 54. — That their great imperial city stretched its hand through 

every clime. 

An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : — 

" Niimberg's hand Nuremberg's hand 

Geht durch alle land." Goes through every land. 

10 Page 54. — Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's 

praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of 
the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning 
emperor, Maximilian ; and the poem was to the Germans of that day, 
what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is men- 
tioned before, in the Belfry of Bruges. See note on page 48. 

11 Page 54. — In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his 

holy dust. 
The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is 
one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and 
was cast by Peter Yischer and his sons, who laboured upon it thirteen 
years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which 
those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. 



NOTES. 449 

12 Page 54. — In the church of sainted Lawrence standi a pix of sculp- 
ture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the 
hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture, in white 
stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the 
choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colours. 

13 Page 56. — Wisest of the Tivelve Wise Masters. 
The Twelve "Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation 
of the Master-singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though 
not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Master- 
singers, as well as the most voluminous. He nourished in the six- 
teenth century ; and left behind him thirty- four folio volumes of 
manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand 
and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand 
lyric poems. 

14 Page 56. — As in Adam Puschman's song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, 
describes him as he appeared in a vision : 

" An old man, 
G-ray and white, and doYe-like, 
Who had in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

15 Page 92. — As Lope says. 

" La colera 
de un Espanol sentado no se terapla, 
si no le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis." 

Lope de Vega. 

16 Page 95. — Abernuncio Satanas. 

" Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo que tengo dicho, que de los 
azotes abernuncio. Abrenuncio habeis de decir, Sancho y no como 
decis, dijo el Puque." — Don Quixote, Part II., c. xxxv. 

29 



450 



NOTES. 



tt Page 106.— Fray Camilla. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epigram. 

" Siempre, Fray Carrillo, estas 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para do verte jamas V 

Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 611. 

18 Page 106. — Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 

" ' Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco !' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco — 
* V e una bella ragazzina 
Che si mole confessar !' 
Fatte T entrare, fatte Y entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare." 

Kopisch. — Volksthumliche Poesien aus alien Mundarten 
Italiens und seiner Inseln, p. 194. 

19 Page 108. — Ave ! cujus calcem clare. 
From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alexander 
Croke's Fssay on the Origin, Progress, and Decline of Rhyming 
Latin Verse, p. 109. 

20 Page 115.— The gold of the Busne, 
Busne is the name given by the Gipsies to all who are not of 
their race. 

21 Page 116.— Count of the Coles. 
The Gipsies call themselves Cales. See Borrow' s valuable and 
extremely interesting work, The Zincali : or an Account of the 
Gipsies in Spain. London, 1841. 

22 Page 120. — Asks if his money-bags would rise. 

{c Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un avariento, que estaba pre- 
guntando a otro, (que por haber sido embalsamado, y estar lejos sus 
tripas, no hablaba porque no habian llegado si habian de resucitar 



NOTES. 451 

aquel dia todoslos enterrados,) g si resucitarian unos bolsones suyos?" 
— El Sueno de las Calaveras, 

23 Page 120. — And Amen! said the Cid Campeador. 
A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

" Amen, dijo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 3044. 

24 Page 121. — The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante. 

" Si che cniaro 
Per essa scenda della mente il flume." 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; though I do not recollect 
in which of his poems. 

25 Page 122. — Mari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question one 
does not wish to answer. 

" Porque caso Mari-Franca 
euatro leguas de Salamanca." 

26 Page 123. — Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this colour of the eye 
as beautiful, and celebrate it in song ; as, for example, in the well- 
known Villancico : 

" jAy ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los eielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 



Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 

BoTil de Faber. Floresta. No. 255, 



Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds. Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. 
Lami says, in his Annotazioni, " Erano i suoi occhi d' un turchino 
verdiccio, simile a quel del mare." 



452 NOTES. 

27 Page 124.— The Avenging Child. 
See the ancient ballads of _E7 Infante Vengador, and Calaynos. 

28 Page 125. — All are sleeping. 
From the Spanish. BohVs Floresta, No. 282. 

29 Page 139.— Good night 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the songs immediately follow- 
ing, and that which commences the first scene of Act III. 

30 Page 155. — The evil eye. 

" In the Gritano language, casting the evil eye is called Querelar 
Nasula, which simply means making sick, and which, according to 
the common superstition, is accomplished by casting an evil look at 
people, especially children, who, from the tenderness of their con- 
stitution, are supposed to be more easily blighted than those of a 
more mature age. After receiving the evil glance, they fall sick, 
and die in a few hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil eye, 
though the belief in it is very prevalent, especially in Andalusia, 
amongst the lower orders. A # stag's horn is considered a good safe- 
guard, and on that account a small horn, tipped with silver, is fre- 
quently attached to the children's necks by means of a cord braided 
from the hair of a black mare's tail. Should the evil glance be cast, 
it is imagined that the horn receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. 
Such horns may be purchased in some of the silversmiths' shops at 
Seville." — Boeeow's Zincali, vol. i., c. ix. 

31 Page 156. — On the top of a mountain I stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow' s Znncali; 
or an Account of the Gipsies in Spain. 

The Gipsy words in the same scene may be thus interpreted : 

John-Dorados, pieces of gold. Doves, sheets. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. Moon, a shirt. 

In your morocco, stripped. Chirelin, a thief. 



NOTES. 453 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at nightfall. St. Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Rastilleros, foot-pads. Lanterns, eyes. 

Hermit, highway-robber. Goblin, police officer. 

Planets, candles. Papagayo, a spy. 

Commandments, the fingers. Vineyards Ss Dancing John, to take flight. 

32 Page 166. — If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish ; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista, 
in page 167. 

33 Page 257. — The Children of the Lord's Supper. 

The Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedish of Bishop 
Tegner, is a poem which enjoys no inconsiderable reputation in the 
North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the atten- 
tion of English readers. It is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in a 
Swedish village ; and belongs to the same class of poems as the Luise 
of Voss, and the Hermann und Dorothea of Groethe. But the Swedish 
poet has been guided by a surer taste than his Grerman predecessors. 
His tone is pure and elevated ; and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what 
is trivial for what is simple. 

There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in 
Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval 
simplicity reigns over that Northern land — almost primeval solitude 
and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by 
magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around 
you are forests of fir. Over head hang the long, fan-like branches, 
trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot 
is a carpet of yellow leaves ; and the air is warm and balmy. On a 
wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream ; and anon come forth 
into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. "Wooden fences divide the 
adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by 
troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass ; 
you sneeze, and they cry " Grod bless you." The houses in the vil- 
lages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the 
most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with 



454 NOTES. 

the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no 
taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The 
thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which 
are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings you 
her heavy silver spoons — an heirloom — to dip the curdled milk 
from the pan. You have oaten cakes, baked some months before ; or 
bread with aniseed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile, the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the 
plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers 
come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes 
in their mouths ; and, hanging round their necks in front, a leather 
wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank notes of the 
country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of 
Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling homeward or townward in 
pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their 
shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles 
of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the roadside, 
each in its own little garden of Grethsemane. In the parish register 
great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened 
or buried in that church ; and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows 
you the baptismal font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few 
flowers, and much green grass ; and daily the shadow of the church 
spire, with its long tapering finger, counts the tombs, representing 
a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours and minutes are the 
graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps 
sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings : 
on others, only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on 
the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads to the 
westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; and 
in his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of 
money for his last journey. Babes, that came lifeless into the world, 
were carried in the arms of grey-haired old men to the only cradle 
they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid 



NOTES. 455 

the little garments of the child, that lived and died in her bosom. 
And over this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the 
stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, " How quietly they rest, 
all the departed!" 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post 
by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof 
to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church 
steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road 
with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from 
beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests? 
and of the parable of the sower that went forth to sow. He leads 
them to the Grood Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the 
spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchisedek, both priest 
and king, though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. 
The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk hand- 
kerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the 
young men, like G-allio, care for none of these things. They are 
busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their 
number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in 
a wedding. 

I will endeavour to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It 
shall be in summer time, that there may be flowers ; and in a 
southern province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the 
lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air ; and 
the sun, the heavenly bridegroom, with golden locks, arises in the 
east, just as our earthly bridegroom, with yellow hair, arises in the 
south. In the yard, there is a sound of voices and trampling of 
hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to 
bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a 
garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends from the neigh- 
bouring farms come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming to the 
wind ; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, 
and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes 
forth from his chamber ; and then to horse and away, towards the 
village where the bride already sits and waits. 



456 NOTES. 

Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some half dozen 
Tillage musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two 
groomsmen ; and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half 
of them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind of 
baggage-waggon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for 
these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a 
triumphal arch, adorned with flowers, and ribands, and evergreens ; 
and, as they pass beneath it, the wedding guests fire a salute, and 
the whole procession stops. And straight from every pocket flies a 
black-jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to 
hand among the crowd : provisions are brought from the waggon ; 
and after eating, and drinking, and hurrahing, the procession moves 
forward again, and at length draws near the house of the bride- 
Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his atten- 
dants are in the neighbouring forest, and pray for hospitality. " How 
many are you?" asks the bride's father. " At least three hundred," 
is the answer ; and to this the host replies, " Yes ; were you seven 
times as many, you should all be welcome ; and in token thereof 
receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale ; 
and, soon after, the whole jovial company comes storming into the 
farmer's yard, and, riding round the May-pole, which stands in the 
centre, alights amid a grand salute and flourish of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear 
in her eye, like the "Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is 
dressed in a red boddice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There 
is a gilded belt around her waist ; and around her neck, strings of 
golden beads, and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of 
wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoulders 
falls her flaxen hair ; and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon the 
ground. O thou good soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart ! 
Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. 
They have been hired for this great day. Yet art thou rich j rich 
in health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent love. The 
blessing of heaven be upon thee! So thinks the parish priest, as he 
joins together the hands of bride and bridegroom, saying, in deep, 



NOTES. 457 

solemn tones — " I give thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy 
wedded wife in all honour, and to share the half of thy bed, thy lock 
and key, and every third penny which you two may possess, or may 
inherit ; and all the rights which Upland's laws provide, and the 
holy king Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bride- 
groom and the priest. The Spokesman delivers an oration, after the 
ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations 
from the Bible; and invites the Saviour to be present at this mar- 
riage feast, as he was at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. The 
table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long arm, and the 
feast goes cheerly on. Punch and brandy pass round between the 
courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked, while waiting for 
the next dish. They sit long at table ; but as all things must have 
an end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is 
led off by the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet 
together. Not till after midnight comes the Last Dance. The girls 
form a ring around the bride, to keep her from the hands of the 
married women, who endeavour to break through the magic circle, 
and seize their new sister. After long struggling they succeed ; and 
the crown is taken from her head, and the jewels from her neck, 
and her boddice is unlaced, and her kirtle taken off; and like a 
vestal virgin clad all in white she goes, but it is to her marriage 
chamber, not to her grave : and the wedding guests follow her with 
lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal, 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern 
clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and 
blossom one by one ; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with 
many-coloured leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter 
and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has 
hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter, from the folds of 
trailing clouds, sows broad-cast over the land, snow, icicles, and 
rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises 
above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars 
shine through the day ; only, at noon, they are pale and wan ; and 



458 notes. 

in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the 
horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, 
and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters 
on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sounds of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like 
sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson 
glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. 
The colours come and go ; and change from crimson to gold, from 
gold to crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Twofold 
from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword ; and a broad 
band passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sunset. Soft purple 
clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapoury folds 
the winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as this is 
merry Christmas ushered in, though only a single star heralded the 
first Christmas. And in memory of that day, the Swedish peasants 
dance on straw ; and the peasant girls throw straws at the timbered 
roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks in a crack shall a 
groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas indeed ! For 
pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons ; but for Swedish 
peasants, brandy and nut brown ale in wooden bowls ; and the great 
Yulecake crowed with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, and 
upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. They 
may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the 
great Eiddar Finke of Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy Midsummer, full of blossoms and the 
song of nightingales, is come ! Saint John has taken the flowers 
and festival of heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May- 
pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming 
in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top, to tell the village 
whence the wind cometh, and whither it goeth. The sun does not 
set till ten o'clock at night ; and the children are at play in the 
streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you 
may sit and read till midnight without a candle. O how beautiful 
is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded 
* Titles of Swedish popular Tales. 



NOTES. 



459 



day, descending upon earth with dews, and shadows, and refreshing 
coolness. How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which, like a silver 
clasp, unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful the silent hour, 
when Morning and Evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath 
the starless sky of midnight ! From the church-tower, in the public 
square, the bell tolls the hour, with a soft musical chime ; and the 
watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his 
horn for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, to the four 
corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice, he chaunts — 

" Ho ! watchman, ho ! 
Twelve is the clock ! 
G-od keep our town 
From fire and brand, 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock !" 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night 
long ; and farther north, the priest stands at his door in the warm 
midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning glass. 

I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant to the 
poem, but will lead to a clearer understanding of it. The translation 
is literal, perhaps to a fault. In no instance have I done the author 
a wrong, by introducing into his work any supposed improvements 
or embellishments of my own. I have preserved even the measure : 
that inexorable hexameter, in which, it must be confessed, the motions 
of the English Muse are not unlike those of a prisoner dancing to the 
music of his chains ; and, perhaps, as Dr. Johnson said of the dancing 
dog, " the wonder is not that she should do it so well, but that she 
should do it at all." 

Esaias Tegner, the author of this poem, was born in the parish 
of By, in Warmland, in the year 1792. In 1799, he entered the 
University of Lund, as a student ; and, in 1812, was appointed Pro- 
fessor of Greek in that institution. In 1824, he became Bishop of 
Wexio, which office he still holds. He stands first among all the 
poets of Sweden, living or dead. His principal work is Frithiofs 
Saga ; one of the most remarkable poems of the age. This modern 



460 



NOTES. 



Scald has written his name in immortal runes. He is the glory and 
boast of Sweden; a prophet, honoured in his own country, and adding 
one more to the list of great names that adorn her history. 

34 Page 258.— The Feast of the Leafy Pavilions. 

The Feast of the Tabernacles : in Swedish, Lofhyddo-hogtiden, the 
Leaf-hut's-high-tide. 

35 Page 259.— The altar-piece, painted by Horberg. 

The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his altar- 
pieces in the Tillage churches. 

36 Page 259.— Of the sublime Wallin. 

A distinguished pulpit orator and poet. He is particularly re- 
markable for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 

3 ? Page 278.— Nils Juel. 

Mis Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral ; and Peder Wessel, a 
Yice- Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of 
Tordenskiolcl, or Thunder-shield. In childhood he was a tailor's 
apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, 
when he was killed in a duel. 

38 Page 308. — Coplas de Manrique. 

Don Jorge Manrique, the author of this poem, flourished in the 
last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, 
and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his history of Spain, 
makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of 
Ucles ; and speaks of him as " a youth of estimable qualities, who in 
this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young ; and was 
thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to 
the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame," 



NOTES. 461 

He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the 
year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde 
de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish 
history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the 
town of Ucles ; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. 
It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the 
literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of 
his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of 
poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral 
reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." 
This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. 
Its conception is solemn and beautiful ; and in accordance with it 
the style moves on — calm, dignified, and majestic. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less 
than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries upon it, have 
been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic 
merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Yaldepenas, is 
the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartugo* There is also 
a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranada. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's 
pocket, after his death on the field of battle : — 



: O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 



"Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
"No pleasures bloom. 



462 NOTES. 

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair : 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care, 

" Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs." 

39 Page 345. — Walter von der Vogelroeid. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird Meadow, was one of the 
principle Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed 
over Heinrich von Ofterdingen, in that poetic contest at the 
Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as the "War of 
Wartburg." 

40 Page 372. — Like imperial Charlemagne . 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of 
farmers. According to the German tradition, in seasons of great 
abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge, at 
Biugen, and blesses the cornfields and the vineyards. During his 
lifetime, he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, " to sell the eggs 
from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables 
of his gardens ; while he distributed among his people the wealth 
of the Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns." 

41 Page 389.— Behold, at last 

JEach tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage, by stating that 
sometimes, though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and 
sparred. I have availed myself of the exception, as better suited to 
my purposes than the general rule ; but the reader will see that it is 



NOTES. 463 

neither a blunder nor a poetic license. On this subject a friend in 
Portland, Maine, writes me thus : — 

" In this State, and also, I am told, in New York, ships are some- 
times rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a 
show. There was a fine large ship launched last summer at Ells- 
worth, fully rigged and sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched 
here, with her rigging, spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed 
the next day, and — was never heard of again 1 I hope this will not 
be the fate of your poem !" 

42 Page 398. — Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 
" When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the 
Admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his 
hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and 
was heard by the people of the Hind to say, ' We are as near heaven 
by sea as by land.' In the following night the lights of the ship sud- 
denly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look- 
out for him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22nd of 
September they arrived, through much tempest and peril, at Fal- 
mouth. But nothing more was seen or heard of tbe Admiral." — 
Belknap's American Biography, i. 203, 

43 Page 42X.—The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of 
Prance what Burns is to the South of Scotland, — the representative 
of the heart of the people, — one of those happy bards who are born 
with their mouths full of birds (la bouco pleno d' aouzelousj . He 
has written his own biography in a poetic form, and the simple 
narrative of his poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs is very 
touching. He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne ; and long may 
he live there to delight his native land with native songs ! 

The following description of his person and way of life is taken 
from the graphic pages of " Beam and the Pyrenees," by Louisa 
Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate 
the French provinces and their literature : — - 



464 NOTES. 

" At the entrance of the Promenade Du Grravier, is a row of small 
houses, — some cafes, others shops, the indication of which is a painted 
cloth placed across the way, with the owner's name in bright gold 
letters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their announce- 
ments. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a bright 
blue flag, bordered with gold ; on which, in large gold letters, appeared 
the name of ' Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, and were welcomed 
by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband 
was busy at that moment dressing a customer's hair, but he was 
desirous to receive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at 
the back of the shop. 

• »«•••••• 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate workman- 
ship, sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet ; 
who will probably one day take his place in the capitouL Next came 
a golden cup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens 
of Auch ; a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis 
Philippe ; an emerald ring, worn and presented by the lamented Duke 
of Orleans ; a pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet's 
visit to Paris, accompanied by his son, received him in the words he 
puts into the mouth of Henri Quatre : — 

' Brabes Gaseous ! 
A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre : 
Benes ! benes ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 

Aproucha bous ! ' 

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its 
citizens had given fetes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses 
and praises ; and nicknacks and jewels of all descriptions, offered to 
him by lady-ambassadresses, and great lords ; English c misses' and 
' miladis ;' and French, and foreigners of all nations who did or did 
not understand Gascon. 

ic All this, though startling, was not convincing ; Jasmin, the 
barber, might only be a fashion, & furore, a caprice, after all ; and it 
was evident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had 



NOTES. 465 

become nearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the 
door opened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free 
and unembarrassed, well-bred and lively ; he received our compli- 
ments naturally, and like one accustomed to homage ; said he was ill, 
and unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have 
been delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad Grascon accent, and 
very rapidly and eloquently ; ran over the story of his successes ; told 
us that his grandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very , 
poor ; that he was now as rich as he wished to be; his son placed in 
a good position at Nantes ; then showed us his son's picture, and 
spoke of his disposition, to which his brisk little wife added, that? 
though no fool, he had not his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin 
assented as a matter of course. I told him of having seen mention 
made of him in an English review ; which he sail had been sent him 
by Lord Durham, who had paid him a visit ; and I then spoke of ' Mi 
cal mouri' as known to me. This was enough to make him forget 
his hoarseness and every other evil: it would never do for me to 
imagine that that little song was his best composition; it was 
merely his first ; he must try to read me a little of e L' Abuglo,' 
— a few verses of ' Franf onnette ; ' — ' You will be charmed,' 
said he, c but if I were well, and you would give me the pleasure 
of your company for some time, if you were not merely running 
through Agen, I would kill you with weeping, — I would make you 
die with distress for my poor Margarido, — my pretty Fran9on- 
nette !' 

" He caught up two copies of his book, from a pile lying on the 
table, and making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French 
translation on one side, which he told us to follow, while he read in 
Grascon. He began in a rich, soft voice, and as he advanced, the 
surprise of Hamlet on hearing the player-king recite the disasters of 
Hecuba was but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried away by the 
spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in tears ; he became pale 
and red ; he trembled ; he recovered himself ; his face was now joy- 
ous, now exulting, gay, jocose ; in fact, he was twenty actors in 
one ; he rang the changes from Rachel to Bouffe ; and he finished by 

30 



466 . NOTES. 

delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and overwhelming 
us with astonishment. 

" He would have been a treasure on the stage ; for he is still, 
though his first youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking ; 
with black, sparkling eyes, of intense expression ; a fine, ruddy com- 
plexion ; a countenance of wondrous mobility ; a good figure ; and 
action fall of fire and grace ; he has handsome hands, which he uses 
with infinite effect ; and, on the whole, he is the best actor of the 
kind I ever saw. I could now quite understand what a troubadour 
or jongleur might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen 
of that extinct race. Such as he is might have been G-aucelm Faidit, 
of Avignon, the friend of Cceur de Lion, who lamented the death of 
the hero in such moving strains ; such might have been Bernard de 
Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen Elinore's beauty ; such 
Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne ; such the 
wild Yidal : certain it is, that none of these troubadours of old 
could more move by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in 
whom all their long- smothered fire and traditional magic seems 
reillumined. 

" We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet ; 
but he would not hear of any apology, — only regretted that his voice 
was so out of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he 
was really labouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our 
country-women of Pau had laden him with kindness and attention, 
and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain c misses,' 
that I feared his little wife would feel somewhat piqued ; but, on the 
contrary, she stood by, smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories 
of his triumphs. I remarked that he had restored the poetry of the 
troubadours ; asked him if he knew their songs ; and said he was 
worthy to stand at their head. ' I am, indeed, a troubadour,' said 
he, with energy, but I am far beyond them all ; they were but 
beginners ; they never composed a poem like my Franconnette ! there 
are no poets in France now, — there cannot be : the language does 
not admit of it ; where is the fire, the spirit, the expression, the 
tenderness, the force of the Gascon ? French is but the ladder to 



NOTES. 487 

reach, to the first floor of Grascon, — how can you get up to a height 
except by a ladder ?' 

" I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some 
months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark- 
eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be recognised : but the 
moment I entered the little shop, I was hailed as an old friend, 
' Ah !' cried Jasmin, ' enfin la voila encore !' I could not but be ' 
flattered by this recollection, but soon found it was less on my own 
account that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance had 
occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He 
produced several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me 
an article headed, ' Jasmin a Londres ;' being a translation of certain 
notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading English literary 
journal. He had, he said, been informed of the honour done him by 
numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread 
by this means ; and he was so delighted on the occasion, that he had 
resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of the trans- 
lations from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. I 
enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was the 
reviewer and translator ; and explained the reason for the verses 
giving pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the 
English language over modern French, for which he has a great con- 
tempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. H e inquired of me respect- 
ing Burns, to whom he had been likened ; and begged me to tell him 
something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amus- 
ing, at having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long. 

"He had a thousand things to tell me ; in particular, that he had only 
the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, inform- 
ing him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, 
the first of which would be sent to him ; she also announced to him the 
agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand 
francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, 
much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a 
rich man for life, the kindness of the Duchess gratified him even more. 



468 NOTES. 

" He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems ; 
both charming, and full of grace and naivete ; and one very affecting, 
being an address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As 
he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend 
his language, she made a remark to that effeet : to which he answered 
impatiently, 'Nonsense, — don't you see they are in tears.' This 
was unanswerable ; and we were allowed to hear the poem to the 
end ; and I certainly never listened to anything more feelingly and 
energetically delivered. 

" We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, 
in the course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of 
vanity. c O, 5 he rejoined, c what would you have ! I am a child of 
nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; the only difference between 
me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his 
vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody see." — Beam 
and the Pyrenees, i. 369, et seq* 

44 Page 442. — A Christmas Carol, 

The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is from M. 
Pertiault's Coup d'oeil sur les Noels en Bowrgogne, prefixed to the 
Paris edition of Les Noels Bowrguignons de la Monnoye (Gui 
Barozai), 1842 : — 

" Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh their 
memories, clear their throats, and begin preluding, in the long even- 
ings by the fireside, those carols whose invariable and eternal theme 
is the coming of the Messiah. They take from old closets pamphlets, 
little collections begrimed with dust and smoke, to which the press, 
and sometimes the pen, has consigned these songs ; and as soon as the 
first Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit 
together by the fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at an- 
other, taking turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but 
singing with one common voice the grotesque praises of the Little 
Jesus, There are very few villages even, which, and during all the 
evenings of Advent, do not hear some of these curious canticles 



NOTES. 



469 



shouted in their streets, to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this 
case the minstrel comes as a reinforcement to the singers at the fire- 
side ; he brings and adds his dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, 
it matters little which) to the joy which breathes around the hearth- 
stone ; and when the voices vibrate and resound, one voice more is 
always welcome. There, it is not the purity of the notes which 
makes the concert, but the quantity, — non qualitas, sed quantitas ; 
then (to finish at once with the minstrel), when, the Saviour has at 
length been born in the manger, and the beautiful Christmas Eve is 
passed, the rustic piper makes his round among the houses, where 
every one compliments and thanks him, and, moreover, gives him in 
small coin the price of the shrill notes with which he has enlivened 
the evening entertainments. 

"More or less, until Christmas Eve, all goes on in this way 
among our devout singers, with the difference of some gallons of 
wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve once come, 
the scale is pitched upon a higher key ; the closing evening must 
be a memorable one. The toilet is begun at nightfall ; then comes 
the hour of supper, admonishing divers appetites ; and groups, as 
numerous as possible, are formed, to take together this comfortable 
evening repast. The supper finished, a circle gathers around the 
hearth, which is arranged and set in order this evening after a par- 
ticular fashion, and which at a later hour of the night is to become 
the object of special interest to the children. On the burning brands 
an enormous log has been placed. This log assuredly does not 
change its nature, but it changes its name during this evening : it 
is called the Suche (the Yule-log). c Look you, say they to the 
children, if you are good this evening, Noel' (for with children one 
must always personify) ' will rain down sugar-plums in the night.' 
And the children sit demurely, keeping as quiet as their turbulent 
little natures will permit. The groups of older persons, not always 
as orderly as the children, seize this good opportunity to surrender 
themselves with merry hearts and boisterous voices to the chanted 
worship of the miraculous Noel. For this final solemnity, they have 
kept the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the most electrifying 



470 NOTES. 

carols. Noel ! Noel ! Noel ! This magic word resounds on all 
sides ; it seasons every sauce, it is served up with every course. Of 
the thousands of canticles which are heard on this famous eve 
ninety-nine in a hundred begin and end with this word ; which is, 
one may say, their Alpha and Omega, their crown and footstool. 
This last evening, the merry-making is prolonged. Instead of retir- 
ing at ten or eleven o'clock, as is generally done on all the pre- 
ceding evenings, they wait for the stroke of midnight : this word 
sufficiently proclaims to what ceremony they are going to repair. 
For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, the bells have been calling 
the faithful with a treble-bob -major ; ' and each one, furnished with a 
little taper streaked with various colours, (the Christmas Candle,) 
goes through the. crowded streets, where the lanterns are dancing 
like Will-o'-the-wisps, at the impatient summons of the multitudi- 
nous chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once inside the church, 
they hear with more or less piety the Mass, emblematic of the 
coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult and great haste they return 
homeward, always in numerous groups ; they salute the Yule-log ; 
they pay homage to the hearth ; they sit down at table ; and, amid 
songs which reverberate louder than ever, make this meal of after- 
Christmas, so long looked for, so cherished, so joyous, so noisy, and 
which it has been thought fit to call, we hardly know why, Rossignon. 
The supper, eaten at nightfall, is no impediment, as you may ima- 
gine, to the appetite's returning ; above all, if the going to and from 
church has made the devout eaters feel some little shafts of the 
sharp and biting north-wind. Rossignon then goes on merrily, — 
sometimes far into the morning hours ; but, nevertheless, gradually 
throats grow hoarse, stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns out, and 
at last the hour arrives when each one, as best he may, regains his 
domicile and his bed, and puts with himself, between the sheets, the 
material for a good sore throat, or a good indigestion, for the mor- 
row. Previous to this, care has been taken to place in the slippers, 
or wooden shoes, of the children, the sugar-plums, which shall be 
for them, on their waking, the welcome fruits of the Christmas 
log." 



